


A Dead Man's Money

by shelleysprometheus



Series: Forethought and Fire [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A good old fashioned villian and his henchman, AWWWW <3 My tender crumpet, AWWWW So smol <3, And Sherlock and John are going to pay for it, And now a few words from my beta, Best Villian EVER, Blood and Fire, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Follows on from The Real Great Perfumers, HOW DARE!, I laughed at this and now I'm pretty sure if there's a hell I'll be going there, John is bi, John you horndog, M/M, Mycroft has been up to stuff, Mycroft you bastard!, NO SHERLOCK! BAD!, Noooooooo 😭, Not good stuff, Note to self: Find out which bodies of water leeches inhabit and avoid them, OH my god the annnnngst gimme gimme gimmmeeeeeee, OMGGGGGG, Oh I am HERE for this, Oh Sherlock you bashful little sexpot, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Realisaton and a reckoning, Sherlock is gay, Sherlock you culpable cauliflower you can't avoid this one, There will be a fall, Totally hearing this in Martin Crieff's voice from Limerick, WHAT THE FUCKKKKK NOOOOO, expect angst, pornetry (poetry + porn), yes it IS a bit warm in here isn't it... woo...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-08-05 04:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 52,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16360682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus
Summary: There's a reckonin' a-comin'And it burns beyond the graveLead inside my belly'cause my soul has lost its wayOh, LazarusHow did your debts get paid?Oh, LazarusWere you so afraid?~ Blood on my Name ~ The Brothers BrightSherlock knows. Sherlock knows what this will do to John. Sherlock knows what he will do to John. John. Honest, brave, dependable John. Trusting, warm, passionate John. Moral, righteous, true John. Sherlock is going to break his heart to save his life.Inspired by the unanswerable poetry of The Brothers Bright and the viscerality of Andrew Scott's portrayal of Moriarty. Blood on my Name is the the second work in the Forethought and Fire series.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes up where The Real Great Perfumers left off. Sherlock and John are back in London navigating their recently revised cohabitation arrangements when Sherlock catches a case in Ireland, and John catches the attention of dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger. The desolation of the Irish countryside and the approaching winter, both omens of the disaster that will eventually befall them. And in the end, Sherlock will make the ultimate sacrifice and John will be left wondering whether it is actually better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all …
> 
> As always, and ever, this work is beta-ed by my conductor of light, my wonderful friend, the brilliant 88thParallel (on Tumblr)/88thParallel (CanadaHolm) (on AO3). 
> 
> But this time round, we have the pleasure of being joined by johnlocklover221 (on Tumblr)/Dovahlock221 (on AO3) for something a bit different. 
> 
> If you have already had the privilege of experiencing johnlocklover221's work, you will be familiar with her YouTube channel - Baker Street Edits; that most exquisite combination of imagery and song which serves to count the beats between the dialogue of the original; filling it, swelling it; living it. And by some miracle, johnlocklover221 has most graciously agreed to “score” this work, pairing the chapters with music and creating an “emotional playlist” for the fic which you can find on Spotify:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 1 by johnlocklover221 (on Tumblr)/Dovahlock221 (on AO3)
> 
> **Blood on My Name**  
>  **The Brothers Bright • Blood on My Names**  
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xz5Mx3a8kRw) [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0oDZeHlximkFyBB8BmZ3ga?si=Or8bnaaQTm-hfRBkJ_yWrQ)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw) **  
**

 

_And the Chimera appeared, with the strength of a lion, the cunning of a goat, and the venom of a snake._

_An omen, of the disaster that would befall him. And no twist of plot or manipulation of fate would save him, for the Chimera, the Chimera breathed fire._  
  
_Fire to devastate any who would follow and any who would find. And in the pool of darkness, he found her (him)._  
  
_There were no sacred stars to guide him, and the fires rose under his skin, down to his bone, surrounding him, consuming him._  
  
_And the whole wide world came after him, the Hounds of Hell came after him. And then there was nowhere to run._  
  
_Cursed._  
  
_Finally._  
  
_In the grey, on the roof of the world; a lead spear, thrust down her fiery throat. Melting, spreading, burning from the inside out._  
  
_Only, the spear. The spear thrust in his belly too, and it burned unbroken in them both, burned beyond the grave_  
  
_The reckoning had come. And there was blood on his name._


	2. A Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 2 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> I'm Gonna Be (500 miles)  
> Sleeping at Last • Covers, Vol. 1
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0dHF8t7OIhgPele5WRUfWG?si=tjLqHfpWSuefnFRmQ0AxlA  
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vU81DihqD0c 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

_ Smack _

John barely had the chance to register the loudly declared “ _ time to get up” _ before the large, familiar hand fell on his bare arse cheek. Hard enough to startle but not to cause pain - lingering, a pleasant tingling murmured along the fine hairs lying underneath the elegantly long fingers. The mattress suddenly depressed next to his head and John released a rueful groan into his pillow as an altogether annoyingly cheerful consulting detective leant over and brushed his lips against John's ear.

“It's a nine,” the baritone whispered, breathless, and John didn't need to see the man to know that he would find the thrill of a case reflected in his eyes, frenetic energy running through pale blue veins lying just beneath alabaster skin.

_ Sleep _ .

John liked sleep and would very much have liked a whole lot more of it but he knew there was no more to be had that morning. Lying flat on his stomach he turned his head and peeled one protesting eye open to regard the (practically vibrating) source of his wakeup call.

“A nine, huh?” John's sleepy features gave way to an adoring smile as he took in the wide grin that had plastered itself all over Sherlock's face.

“Start packing John,” Sherlock declared bouncing off the bed to wrench open the (now shared) closet in his room, pulling a shirt off its hanger and tossing it at John. “We are off to Galway.”

“And what exactly constitutes a nine in Galway?” John sighed as he moved to vacate the (now also shared) bed, casting a last mournful look at its retreating coziness.

“Leeches, John, leeches!”

_ Sherlock _

Honestly, it was extraordinary how slow the man could be. From the glacial pace he set performing his morning ablutions to the rather ridiculous amount of time he took selecting one of his completely hideous jumpers.

_ John. Was. Slow.  _

And Sherlock was beginning to wonder whether John was doing it on purpose, in revenge for the early morning wake up call. But no, upon thorough analysis, this morning’s activities were occurring at the usual, painfully slow rate at which John chose to perform his routine … e _ very single morning! _

Impressive deductive abilities notwithstanding, Sherlock couldn't have been sure in advance how their recently revised cohabitational arrangements would affect the way in which they responded to each others idiosyncrasies. For Sherlock at least, increased tolerance had not been an outcome.

“Honestly John, now  _ tea?” _ Sherlock exclaimed when he could no longer stand to wait. “You know you  _ can _ get tea at the airport!”

“So says the man who won't deign to touch a pot if it hasn't been brewed for exactly three and a half minutes,” John retorted, proceeding to draw the tea bag  _ (if it was possible, even more slowly)  _ in and out of his mug.

“It's actually three minutes and forty seconds,” Sherlock huffed. “But that's not the point.”

“And the point would be?”

“That we need to be in Galway, John!”

“Why the rush? It's not as if the leeches are going anywhere fast,” John chuckled,  _ (apparently amusing himself) _ as he tossed the teabag in the bin.

Determined not to acknowledge John’s exceedingly lame attempt at humor but lacking the impulse control to ignore the misnomer, Sherlock interjected haughtily. “Actually John, that's not entirely true. On land leeches move by suction which admittedly does not allow for any great pace, but in water,” he jerked his phone's screen towards John to illustrate his point. “They flatten and manipulate their bodies into wavelike patterns and as such are capable of swimming at extreme speed.”

John’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted  _ (finally he was paying attention to what mattered _ ) as he regarded the creature making its way through the clear water, its belly striped iridescent gold and green, shimmering with each sinuous movement.

“What exactly are you looking at?” John stepped towards him to commandeer his phone, reading aloud from the screen. ‘...  _ a-history-of-the-medicinal-leech-trade-in-ireland-1750- to-2010 _ … _ ’ _ Now that really  _ is _ interesting.”

“I told you John,” Sherlock pronounced each word carefully. “A. Nine. Now let's go!”


	3. Testicles, John!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 3 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Will ‘O the Wisp  
> Thomas VanOosting • Music in Mind: Album 1
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0ohYK5Wz3nXNGb0mr3UeEf?si=xz04sNGERJaH_C_OyKOQYQ  
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxlT4RqNmOA 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

Stepping out the front door of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock automatically raised one of his impossibly long arms to hail a cab. But before he could do so, John had snagged his fingers in the hem of Sherlock's coat sleeve and tugged his arm back down. Sherlock's nose crinkled in annoyed confusion.

“Nope, that’s our ride,” John pointed his phone in the direction of a pale blue Prius idling in place on the other side of the road.

John hid his grin as Sherlock's nose wrinkled even further in distaste. “What. Is.  _ That _ . John?”

“ _ That _ , Sherlock, is a rideshare, a  _ Lyft _ to be precise. And  _ that _ is the way we are getting to the airport.

“Nope,” Sherlock popped the p and jutted his chin out petulantly.

_ Magnificent prat. _

“Out of interest,” John began, in the affected style of someone who already very much knows the answer to their question before they even ask it. “How much  _ did _ we get paid for our participation in Mycroft’s Moroccan clusterfuck*?”

Sherlock stubbornly lifted his chin even higher so that he was now looking over John’s head. John continued on regardless. “And I am going to take a ... wild guess and assume that the leeches aren't paying us either?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock’s now withering gaze returned to John. “While leeches may be  triploblastic organisms, you know as well as I that they lack the generative computation necessary to navigate such a medium of exchange.”

John deliberately ignored the sub-texted “idiot” and pushed on. “I’ll take that as a nothing as well then, shall I? In which case, since one of us has to be the financially responsible one in this partnership and I am pretty sure that someone is not going to be you  _ Mr. Yves Saint Laurent oxfords, _ ” he teasingly nudged Sherlocks ludicrously expensive footwear with his Asada brogue. “I'm taking charge, and we are taking the rideshare.”

_ Sherlock _

_ Seriously, what was John's hideous obsession with public transportation? First in Morocco and now back in London. _ Sherlock's gaze burned through the side of John's head as the infuriating man resolutely refused to look at him. He got  _ (folded himself) _ into the pathetically small, completely insulting excuse for a vehicle. They were greeted simply by a “Hi, you must be John?” by the young  _ (recreational cannabis using, fancied himself a musician - as if the electric guitar was a musical instrument) _ driver before it pulled away from the kerb. Sherlock’s self imposed retreat to his mind palace  _ (how else was he expected to deal with this abomination) _ was abruptly terminated a mere ten minutes later when the driver declared. “Just one more pickup on the way.”

“Excuse me, what?” Sherlock snapped to anyone who would listen (which as it turned out was no one). 

John got out of the car to offer the additional  _ (unwelcome) _ passengers John's and the remaining seat in the back next to Sherlock, and John then hopped in the front. In clambered an ungainly male child of approximately three years of age,  _ (who can really tell with human offspring?),  _ its harried mother shuffling in right after it, settling the child into a car seat that not only dug unpleasantly into Sherlock's lower ribs but also placed the  _ (most probably disease ridden) _ creature practically at eye level with him.

Unperturbed by the lack of affection radiating from the tall strange man next to him, the child, fascinated by Sherlock's Belstaff, proceeded to run its fingers curiously over the textured fabric. John grinned to himself in the rear vision mirror as Sherlock huffed at the sheer indignity of it all.

Picking the chubby little fingers off the sleeve of his Belstaff and depositing them back in the child's lap, Sherlock gave the offender a glare, the likes of which he usually found quite efficient at dispatching annoyingly incompetent attending police officers to the far end of a crime scene and out of his way. And  _ had  _ the creature been in any way an evolved life form  _ (ridiculously wishful thinking) _ , Sherlock surmised, this would have been the end of the intrusion into his personal space. Instead the toddler deemed it to be an excellent game and proceeded to place its fingers back on Sherlock’s sleeve only to have them picked off with those same long fingers again and sent back to their owner.

And so it went in for the next twenty minutes, both Sherlock and the child equally as committed to their role in the game of wits and also equally committed to being the one to make the last move. 

Eventually, and much to his chagrin, Sherlock resigned himself to the conclusion that the only possible way to defeat his plebeian opponent was to ignore said opponent altogether. As such, he whipped out his phone, albeit with chubby fingers still attached to his sleeve.

“Did you know, John,” he stated far more loudly than practically necessary in the confines of the vehicle. “That leeches possess ten stomachs, thirty two brains and nine pairs of testicles? That's eighteen testicles, John!”

And of course, the toddler to his right latched on to the ridiculously funny word, and started parroting “testicles” over and over again to the other occupants of the vehicle. 

The child’s mother turned to glare at Sherlock, who ignored her completely and instead titled his head down to regard the child. “Yes,” he agreed seriously “And do you know what purpose testicles serve?” 

The mother’s mouth opened and closed despite no sound being omitted, John snapped his head round in incredulity and Sherlock simply peered out the window to declare happily upon sight of Heathrow's main terminal. “Oh, look at that, we’re here.”

As John spluttered, red faced, some semblance of an apology to the mother, Sherlock grinned to himself and exited the vehicle. Sometimes it payed to possess the ability to totally ignore social mores; he seriously doubted that John would be suggesting this as a mode of transportation any time soon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft’s Moroccan clusterfuck* is a reference to Sherlock and John’s previous case, detailed in The Real Great Perfumers. Upon reflection, perhaps Mycroft’s Moroccan Clusterfuck would have been a more appropropriate title for the fic ;)


	4. How Old?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 4 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Aviators  
> Helen Jane Long • The Aviators
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5ELlLbq2yc6eHbATjSK7bJ?si=vtQAn9VJTUa2VozYlEqGZQ  
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMSBBRhdFc4&t=17s 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ Sherlock _

John had still not spoken a word to him by the time they had located and settled into their allocated  _ (economy, sigh) _ seats on the 9:50 Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. At any rate, Sherlock wasn't one to linger in the disapproval of others  _ (especially when it was a consequence of their own doing, John), _ and the lack of expected social interaction allowed him uninterrupted focus on the case.

Victim. Male. Found naked at the bottom of a tank at a (the only) medicinal leech breeding facility just outside of Ballinasloe in County Galway. 

_ Drained of all his blood. _

While the last fact alone made the case interesting, what made it fascinating was that according to the evidence (if the video footage was to be believed), the victim had willingly sought the method of his own demise.

Medicinal leech breeding was big business. Profitable business. Practically all plastic surgery units in the UK utilized the invertebrates to ensure the successful rejoining of tiny blood vessels in fingers, ears and lips. And while anyone with access to the internet and a modicum of sense could run their own backyard operation, the quality of leeches produced by the facility in Ballinasloe were the best in the world. As such, the farm had the type of security that rivalled any of Mycroft's Ministry Of Defense facilities and the records on each system all indicated that the man had simply walked right up and climbed on in.

Steepling his fingers under his chin he considered the level of expertise required to falsify data on not just one, but three complex security measures without leaving a trace. Sherlock sensed a slight movement in his periphery and the resultant feeling of something brushing up and down the sleeve of his Belstaff. He kept his eyes firmly closed and tried his best to ignore it.  _ He despised economy class. _

_ John _

John grinned inwardly as he ran his fingers surreptitiously up and down Sherlock’s forearm, the pads of his fingers rising and falling in accordance with the variations in the weave. He stilled as Sherlock’s nose wrinkled slightly at the intrusion, but resumed his ministrations when Sherlock didn’t open an eye. 

After a minute of the exercise in advancing and retreating, with John barely able to contain his mirth every time his actions invoked even the tiniest of alterations in Sherlock’s composure, Sherlock let out a sigh of utter resignation. “Oh for heaven's sake John, just how old  _ are _ you?”

Upon which utterance, John collapsed into a fit of insuppressible giggles, only broken by the direction by the pilot to the stewards to arm doors and cross check. The plane began to push back from the gates and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth tugged upwards in a ghost of a grin.


	5. Everything Narrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 5 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3 
> 
> Irish Dirge  
> Roy Todd • 40 Soothing & Emotional Piano Instrumentals
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3Sdv5WmBPlqfcEhA3z2LyY?si=rNNk0VMzTiCGDHC3qjEGHA  
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTJLrsCbS0Q 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

John frowned as he climbed into the rental car, and out of the overcast bluster that had greeted them upon arrival in Dublin.

“What?” Sherlock regarded him, eyebrows arched in contrived innocence.

“You know what ... this,” he gestured to the luxurious expanse of ivory leather swathing the interior of the next season’s Land Rover he found himself sitting in, “is an unnecessary extravagance, not to mention ill-fitted to the purpose of navigating Irish roads. Did you not hear a word of what I was saying before we left?”

“Yes, of course I heard, how could I not, you are not particularly a subtle man.” 

_ Insufferable git. _

“Well, then?” John stared at him expectantly.

“I look good in this,” Sherlock stated quite matter-of-factly, as if that alone signalled the end to the conversation.

And as infuriating as Sherlock was, John couldn't argue with his logic on this one. The man did look fucking gorgeous sitting behind the wheel of the imposing grey vehicle, all wind blown curls and pale skin peaked from the walk from the terminal to the carpark. Thoughts of shagging his boyfriend senseless over the back seat had him shifting in the smooth leather seat to readjust himself and Sherlock smirked, self satisfied, as he put the car into first and pulled out of the lot.

_ Ireland _ .

Having partially caught up on his missed sleep on the hour-long flight, John found himself alert and drawn to the scenes passing them by as they made their way down the M4 and M6 towards Galway. 

The Irish summer was clearly over. Wide expanses of land led out from all sides of the motorway - the absence of leafed trees making the countryside seem even more open and rugged. Crumbling stone walls traversed the fields back and forth, broken occasionally by ditches and gates. Where London was populous, Ireland seemed … desolate, and the slant of light hitting his eyes through the side window left John feeling a little adrift, unanchored in this strangely bereft land. He shook his head to clear it.  _ What was coming over him? _

The sudden movement caused Sherlock to glance his way with some curiosity, and John was relieved when Sherlock’s subsequent question led back towards the case instead of anything more personal.

_ Sherlock _

“Did you ever have cause to use leeches in your work?”

John focused on the question. “Not much, field surgery being more about preserving life over limb as you know; major hemorrhaging and airway complications rather than saving smaller blood vessels. But I did come across a German medic who swore by them, kept a jar of them in his pack to treat his hemorrhoids ...”

_ Hemorrhoids _ . Sherlock couldn't help feeling faintly appalled. He shouldn't have been, of course; leeches presenting an elegantly efficient solution to a range of venous disorders. But still, they weren't something he ever wanted to be attached to that particular part of his anatomy.

If John noticed his squeamishness, he didn't break stride to comment, continuing. “They really are amazing creatures. Aside from the exceptional anaesthetic and anticoagulant properties, the efficiency of the bite is far more precise and less damaging than the cut of a scalpel. You say they completely drained him?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock kept his eyes on the road, flicking occasionally to the landscape left and right.

“Well, they would make a very effective killing tool, if the army was ever able to weaponize them,” John quipped dryly.

_ Mycroft in charge of an army of leeches?  _ Sherlock mused. _ Now that was quite a fitting thought.  _ “Do you ever miss it?”

“Field surgery?” John’s brow furrowed. “Sometimes. Not the blood, but the adrenaline, yeah. The blinding focus under fire. Everything narrowing …”

_ Like the first potent hit of cocaine … _

“Not going back though,” John shook he head determinedly and turned back to the window.

_ No, not going back _ , Sherlock agreed resolutely. _ But still … something lingered … _


	6. Dreadful Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 6 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Untold  
> Secession Studios • The Untold
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-iHnbPb60Y  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2YGckbcAmjxbiZbYVAz5UW?si=y7n7o9A0RYq2zTczucQWcg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ Sherlock _

Weaving the vehicle through the narrow (barely enough room for a donkey, let alone a 2.072 meter wide, 2.249 tonne vehicle) back lanes of Ballinasloe, Sherlock begrudgingly conceded (albeit only to himself of course) that perhaps this wasn't the best vehicle for the task. As it was, he was inordinately grateful when finally, after yet another hairpin turn, the road widened into a cul-de-sac framing a white-walled entrance. Two tall oak trees stood sentry at the edges and a small sign indicated that they had arrived.

_ Fuiltech Farm. _

Sherlock snorted  _ (someone had a sense of humor). _

John shot him a curious look and Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the sign. “The name, in gaelic,  _ fuil _ is blood,  _ fuilteach _ means bloody.”

Pulling the Land Rover in and turning off the engine, Sherlock's razor sharp mind ignited, processing, rapid fire, every facet of the scene that greeted him. 

_ Unmarked vehicle parked outside at the gate. Waiting. For them. Garda; Irish police force.  _

The car door opened and indeed, it was a navy blue uniform clad officer who stepped out.

_ Lack of insignia on epaulettes. Low ranking. Garda (Irish equivalent of a Constable). Just graduated. Small town, small detachment. Case (suicide) not deemed important enough to warrant the dispatch a higher ranking officer from Galway. _

The (young) Gardaí gave them a short, sharp nod as they crossed the short distance to him.

“Hello,” John extended his hand, flashing his completely harmless, jam-and-jumpers, everyday-man smile. I'm John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes,” the Gardaí regarded John's hand, but declined to take it, leaving it hovering uselessly between them. “I know.” 

John’s annoyed sniff at the slight went similarly ignored as the Gardaí instead made his way to the gate and punched a six digit security code into the keypad. The wide wrought iron gates swung open onto the short graveled driveway leading to the main building, and the Gardaí set off towards it, leaving them to follow in his wake - John huffing under his breath and Sherlock still taking everything in.

_ Multi-layered access control system. Perimeter security CCTV monitors. Infrared motion detectors  - the place certainly was secure … _

_ John _

They were met at the entrance to the facility by a tall, older gentleman, a lab coated employee ( _ technician? farmer? what do you call a leech breeder anyway? _ ). 

“Frank,” the tall, heavyset man offered his hand to Sherlock and then John ( _ at least someone here had some manners _ ) .

“These are the two from London,” the Gardaí jerked his head in their direction. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson...”

“Ooo, London folks, best be on our best behaviour then,” Frank winked at the Gardaí who muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

“Don’t mind Glen,” Frank nodded towards the frowning Gardaí as he turned to lead the party of three inside. “It’s been a bit of a dreadful business for all involved.”

“None more so than the victim,” Sherlock observed dryly.

“Harrumph,” Frank laughed as he slapped Sherlock resoundingly on the back sending him staggering forward a step. “I think I’m going to like you.”

John’s inelegant snort of amusement at the frankly quite terrified expression that appeared on Sherlock’s face earned him a sharp, silent rebuke from Sherlock.

“Did you want to see the video first, or the tank?” Frank inquired.

“The tank,” Sherlock responded quickly, attempting to regain his composure by propping up the already propped up collar of his Belstaff and adjusting his already perfectly knotted scarf. John chuckled to himself as Sherlock then maneuvered himself so that John was now situated between Sherlock and Frank.

“This way, then,” Frank encouraged, leading them past a sparsely appointed office and through a set of swinging double doors into a long corridor. A succession of secured doors lead off it.

“Know much about leeches?” Frank looked warmly, helpfully at them _. _

“Just about their clinical application,” John confirmed.

“Right, of course - you're a medical man. So, we only breed Hirodo medicinalis here; marketed as medical devices, single-use only.” Frank indicated to the first darkened doorway along the corridor. “They start off here in the breeding room.” 

John managed a quick glance through the Perspex panel at a series of muslin covered tanks before their footfalls had taken them past the door and on to the next. 

“It takes about 24 months and then they get transferred here, to the cold room,” Frank stopped in front of the next door adorned with crime scene tape.

As the still unsmiling “Gardaí Glen” removed the tape strung across the door to allow them access, John followed the direction of Sherlock's gaze, further down the corridor, to a third doorway bathed in the sterility of UV light. 

Frank followed Sherlock’s gaze too. “That's where we package them for transport. The end of the line,” Frank clarified before holding the door open and encouraging them to follow the Gardaí through.


	7. Shadowed Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 7 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Demand of Man  
> Secession Studios • The Untold
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJeBz3HxGsI  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/1VJBJCX7ybX6lQqkeXJx3y 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

The first thing to hit John upon entering the room was the temperature; cold and dark.

Cold, as the name suggested, but much colder than he was expecting, it couldn’t have been more than five or six degrees). So cold, in fact, that he could see his breath despite the shadowed light of the darkened room.

Dark, too dark to see the contents clearly - the floors of the tanks, sitting beneath greenish water, appearing to move as one, swelling and contracting; living. And in the darkness, even more bizarrely, the series of muslin covered tanks spaced shoulder-width apart on the cold stone floor possessed a remarkable resemblance to the arrangement of flag draped coffins that had been sitting in the hangar at RAF Lyneham when he was invalided back. John gave his head a shake to clear the unwelcome thought.

Past the rows they followed the Gardaí, coming to a halt only they reached the very last tank at the very far end of the room. Reaching for the wall, Frank flicked on a switch, bringing the bar of fluorescent tubes above the tank buzzing to life. John blinked, wincing as his pupils contracted rapidly in the bright light to focus on the tank and the water within … stained a dark crimson red.

_ Sherlock _

_ Current heart rate: 56 beats per minute (usual rate 62). _

_ Current respiration rate: 12 breaths per minute (usual rate 14). _

_ Fascinating. _

Sherlock was used to the freefall of his mind into blinding focus at a crime scene, however the temperature in the room had seemingly served to accelerate its descent exponentially. This revelation certainly necessitated further study, however, in this moment all other thoughts faded into the background as the tank and its contents became his only source of stimuli.

_ Two meters long, half a meter wide, three quarters of a meter deep; 800-liter capacity; more than adequate size for the complete immersion of a human body. _

_ Ten percent displacement by an average male; evidence found in water staining on floor and platelets clinging to outside of tank walls. _

_ No splatter. No fight, no struggle, supporting the claim of willing death, but, the cold …? _

The answer crystalized with John’s ( _ perfect _ ) question. “Are the tanks always kept this cold?”

Frank nodded. “It’s to encourage more … harmonious living arrangements. By this stage we have starved them for about six months, the ones in this tank being the largest and the hungriest. The cold keeps them drowsy and discourages them from feeding on each other.”

“But that’s not how you found him,” Sherlock cut in.

“No, the temperature had been turned up. But how …?”

“It’s one thing to willingly lower yourself into a tank of water to become dinner,” he threw an arm out towards tank, causing his Belstaff to flutter out dramatically around him, punctuating his deduction. “It’s another thing altogether to do it when the temperature of the water is just above freezing. Death by leech, while a psychologically unpleasant way to die is, comparatively, a physically rather pleasant one …”

Silence.

Sherlock huffed in irritation as his audience struggled to catch on to the reasoning. “The local anesthetic?” he prompted. “It would have concealed all pain of the bites, so  _ clearly _ this wasn’t a man who sought a painful death. And, as you pointed out yourself, cold leeches aren’t really in the mood for snacking. Ergo sum; warm water, mobile leeches, everyone wins. Or loses, in the case of our victim.”

Sherlock felt the pull of his ego as ( _ finally _ ) the looks of confusion gave way to understanding, but no look mattered save the one he sought and found ( _ brilliant, amazing _ ) on John’s face. Sherlock took a steadying breath and turned back to the tank, steepling his fingers under his chin as he peered at the large, swollen leeches and began musing under his breath.

_ The tank. This tank. The furthest from the door. Why did he choose this tank? _

_ The largest leeches, the hungriest leeches. He knew what he was doing. How did he know what he was doing? _

As it was obvious that Sherlock’s questions were rhetorical, the others simply observed as the questions posed to the occupants of the tank gathered pace, until Sherlock pivoted abruptly on the spot and cast the full strength of his “clearly I am dealing with an imbecile” look on the hitherto ignored Gardaí standing in the corner.


	8. No Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 8 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Sociopath  
> Lucas King • Sociopath
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VagES3pxttQ  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/04uSjGWxdBS68moTlXjR7L 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

Had the Gardaí not pissed him off thoroughly from the moment they arrived, John would have experienced a touch more sympathy for the man who now found himself the sole focus of Sherlock’s not insignificant attention.

“While this may no doubt come as a surprise to those lacking my exceptional observational skills,” Sherlock’s look pinned the Gardaí like a butterfly to a board. “May I draw your attention to the fact that there is in fact,  _ no _ body … ”

John’s sympathy did kick in a tad however, when the Gardaí only managed a squeak in response. “That was … err, me. It didn’t seem right to have them keep  …  _ munching _ on him, so we … err, _ I _ told them to pull him out.”

John winced  _ (here it comes …) _

“So,” Sherlock drew it out. “It didn’t occur to you that since they would have done all their feeding within the first fifteen minutes, by the time you arrived there wouldn’t have been any further “munching as you so eloquently put it — to be done, and you could have left the body where it was, and in so doing  _ not _ proceeded to destroy the evidence?”

Wisely, or perhaps stunned by the pace at which Sherlock’s words were gathering eviscerating speed, the Gardaí stayed silent. And as the Gardaí’s eyes grew wider, John begin to doubt that the young officer was going to survive the force of nature that was Sherlock in full flight, because, as John was acutely aware, Sherlock was only just warming up.

“And I don’t suppose that your tiny little mind can even fathom the sheer volume of evidence you contaminated when you hauled the body out and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor?” Sherlock gestured to the large pool of dried bloody water on one side of the tank. “So, is there anything you can tell me about what this scene looked like  _ before _ you tampered with it for no discernable reason?”

“He was naked?” The Gardaí supplied hopefully, opting for placation in the face of impending death at the hands (tongue) of the mad Englishman.

“Right — male, naked. Such keen insight, I can tell why you were hired into the Garda,” Sherlock replied witheringly while John put a reassuring hand on the now slightly quivering Gardaí’s shoulder.

“In Glen’s defense,” Frank offered. “Apart from the bite wounds, there really wasn’t much to see.”

Sherlock ignored Frank and focused on the Gardaí. “I need to see the body - do you think you might be able to arrange  _ that _ without completely bollocksing it up?”

John glared at Sherlock ( _ enough already _ ) while the Gardaí, silent, nodded once, and then took advantage of the (very welcome) opportunity to flee the room and with it, Sherlock’s wrath.

_ Sherlock _

Slightly surprised by the pace of the exiting Gardaí, Sherlock turned to John _ (not good?) _

John just rolled his eyes,

_ OK, a bit not good maybe. _

Shrugging it off, Sherlock turned back towards the tank, peering back through the stained water at the gelatinous mass of immobile leeches on the bottom. “I’d estimate about 70 to 80 leeches in the tank?”

“That’s about right,” Frank replied over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Estimating for 120mls per leech over 15 minutes, wounds continuing to bleed for up to 10 hours. Roughly 70 feeding leeches in the tank, that’s 8 liters over 12 hours. And with the average male body containing between 4.5 and 5.5 liters …”

“And that would have been …” John started.

And Sherlock finished, “All the blood he had? Yes.”

Sherlock turned back to Frank. “I’ll need to take some of them with me, and a separate sample of the water.”

Frank walked to the back of the room and pulled open a drawer, removing a couple of large sterile containers. Pulling on an arm’s-length glove and using a nylon net, he drew the water and with it a number of the sluggish creatures, into one of the containers. Sealing the container, Frank set it on the bench and used the second container to obtain a sample of just the water itself. Placing both containers in a large clear zip lock bag, he handed it to Sherlock.

“What happens to them now?” John asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer (with human blood in their system they were now effectively dirty needles, and infinitely more dangerous than that, mobile dirty needles).

“Now they have to be destroyed. We use an alcohol solution to exterminate them — it’s pretty quick,” Frank shrugged then asked. “You want to see the video now?”

Sherlock nodded.  _ Now the video. _


	9. Mean Anything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 9 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Genius  
> Lucas King • Genius
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UoB98PabcY  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5OOoQHe7qWFEmZSaBlF40C 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_Sherlock_

Back in the office they had passed on their way in, Frank positioned himself at the computer terminal that sat in front of the window overlooking the driveway. John stood, arms folded, to one side, and Sherlock leant over Frank’s shoulder peppering him with questions as Frank fast-forwarded through the frames of the surveillance video that had been captured on the night in question.

“What time was he found? When did he arrive? How long did it take him to get to the tank? Who else was here - Graveyard shift?”

Clearly trying (and failing) to keep up with the speed of Sherlock’s queries, Frank grasped onto Sherlock’s last question. “No, no one works overnight. We really don’t need many people to run the facility. Aside from ensuring that the leeches are developing as planned and transferring them between the tanks as they grow, the only other thing apart from packaging for shipment is exercising them twice a day.”

Frank paused the video as an image of a darkened figure approached the front gate and proceeded to enter a code into the keypad.

“A past employee?” John offered helpfully when Frank un-paused the frame, showing the gate swinging open, granting access.

“No,” Frank shook his head. “I’ve been here since the facility opened ten years ago and he, who ever he is, or _was_ , never worked here.”

“Pause it there,” Sherlock instructed. “Who has codes to the security system?”

“Just current employees.”

“OK, so what code did he use?”

“He didn't use a code.”

“Excuse me?”

“He used _a_ code,” Frank elaborated. “But it’s not one of our _programmed_ codes, technically it shouldn’t even be able to work.”

“What was it?” Sherlock demanded as he purloined a scrap of paper and a pen off the desk.

“Four. Two. Six. Four. Seven. Four.”

Sherlock transcribed the numerals into their alphabetical equivalents and then analysed all possible meaningful elements. After a minute of staring at what he had produced, he frustratedly swiveled the paper in John’s direction:

**\-  Co | am | an | cm - | IQ | is -**

**IBM | Ian | ham -**

**gang | hang - pH | pi**

**gangs | hangs -**

**\- Amish**

**\- bogs | cogs -**

**\- bog | cog -**

**\- - nip -**

**\- - oh - -**

“Do these mean anything to _you_?”

“Not particularly, but if you add and H in front of the “Amish” you get my middle name,” John offered.

Momentary confusion gave way to a look of sharp annoyance as Sherlock demanded. “Why didn’t I know your middle name?”

“No idea _William Scott Sherlock Holmes_ ,” John gave him a sly wink and grinned. “You must be slipping.”

_John_

John’s grin faded the moment he took in the look on the face of the Gardaí who had re-appeared in the office doorway ( _sigh_ ).

“I spoke to the morgue in Galway, they are not there now,” the Gardaí apologized and then rallied. “But I was able to arrange for them to be there tomorrow for you … but not until midday — Sunday service first…”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Oh yes, by all means, let’s delay the business solving a crime to provide time for fostering the delusions of a group of individuals desperately seeking solace in a fictional entity.”

John thought the Gardaí just might cry. “Sherlock!”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock dismissed.

“Crime?” the Gardaí regained enough composure to express his confusion. “But you said that he did it to himself, and that’s what the footage shows.”

“Yes, but with this level of security and the amount of knowledge required to do it properly, he would have had to have some help. And that help, is most definitely a crime.”


	10. Lucifer's Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 10 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Lucifer’s Waltz  
> Secession Studios • The Untold
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikl-QYQ252Q  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2pC9UHkrSWH6lJPkXlMIsI 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

Sherlock turned the Land Rover into the cul-de-sac, swinging it into a parking space at the far end. They exited the vehicle, overnight bags in hand, in search of their lodgings.

“The pub’s here somewhere,” John muttered, his head bowed towards the low light of his phone as they walked down the street. The lack of signage was a little worrying and he checked his map app again. Suddenly, Sherlock steered him sideways onto the stoop of a nondescript white building. The blunt rectangular door frame cut into the solid stone was lower than normal and Sherlock had to duck his head a little as they stepped inside. John, to his chagrin, had no such problem.

The pub itself was small but homey. Lively chatter from the bar and a few cozy booths lit up the warm velvet decor. They took a seat in one of the booths off to the side and John headed to the bar to order their dinner and drinks.

“I hope you were feeling like pie and mash,” John grinned as he returned, depositing two frosty glasses on the table before sliding in to the booth. “It was either that or … well, that was the _only_ option.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock murmured as he dragged his beer closer.

John lifted his glass, catching Sherlock's eye. “Here’s to not having one’s blood supply drained by a .. bunch, hoard, swarm …?”

“Ganon,” Sherlock corrected.

“By a … ganon of ravenous leeches!”

Sherlock raised his glass to meet John's and grinned back. “Yes, here’s to … not that.”

They sat, facing each other, in lazy, companionable silence. John, enjoying the soothing buzz of the first very welcome sips of his beer, started to feel the unconscious tension of the day easing away and gave Sherlock a teasing look as he brushed his ankle against Sherlock’s calf. Sherlock startled slightly before regaining his composure, but the tips of his ears started to pinken tellingly.

_ Adorable _ .

John was about to see how red he could turn those ears when the surrounding chatter unexpectedly halted. John glanced around the pub and caught the wariness that now graced the faces of a number of patrons, which seemed to be in response to a dark haired, dark  _ (black?)  _ eyed man in the doorway from the street.

_ Young-ish thirties, pale skin, average height, anything but average looking. _

_ Dangerous _ .

Clothed in a glaringly designer ( _ in all the ways that Sherlock’s was understatedly bespoke _ ) suit, the new arrival made  _ (slithered) _ his way across the floor, his back towards them as he took up a stool at the bar. John's gaze flickered to Sherlock’s in question, but Sherlock’s eyes were caught up in the unfolding scene.

At the far end of the bar, a thin, weathered older man muttered something to his even thinner weathered companion. Without turning, the dark head tilted ever so slightly in their direction and the muttering ceased, their half empty glasses suddenly capturing their complete attention.

Instantly John craved the feel of his Sigg in his hand; the gun that was, of course, 600 kilometers away, safely secured in the drawer of his bedside table. John felt Sherlock’s gaze shift, focusing on John’s left hand that (he now realized) was unconsciously flexing itself in and out of a fist on the table. John stretched his fingers and flattened out his palm on the table’s surface. Sherlock gave him a tight smile.

When they both turned back to the scene at the bar, the man was holding up two fingers to the publican who was standing nearby, surreptitiously polishing newly washed glasses with a rag. Two shots of whiskey poured into a tumbler, and the publican placed the glass in front of the man before retreating back to the safety of the damp glasses.

The man downed the amber liquid in one fluid swallow and pushed the glass back across the bar with his index finger. Alighting from the stool he turned slowly, catching John's eye and winked ( _ what the actual fuck? _ ) before turning on his heel and heading back out the door. John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s (which were now narrow and tight) and then back to the door.

John felt a shiver of revulsion, and something darker that he couldn't quite  _ (didn't want to) _ name, run down his spine. He turned his head back to Sherlock, fixated on the now empty doorway.

_ Sherlock _

_ (Intruder). _ Sherlock allowed the distaste to run through him, seeking to settle in the creases and crevices of his mind. He could feel John’s eyes on him but he wanted to take a moment to sit with it, to let the unpleasantness pool and unfold. He brought his attention back just as the publican came over to place their food in front of them.

Sherlock took the opportunity. He flicked his head to the door and raised his eyebrows in deliberate question to the publican. For a moment it appeared that the publican might not respond. When he did, it was careful and low.

“Jim Moriarty. From around here originally. Strange kid. Both parents’ dead in a house fire. Accident, they say. But well … there were rumors.”

“Rumors?” John leaned in, encouraging the publican's confidence  _ (yes, good John _ ).

But the publican was having none of it. “What can I say?” he shrugged, elusive. “People talk.” And with that, he left them to their dinner.

Sherlock watched him retreat, thoughtfully.

“They’re scared,” John pronounced, spearing a chunk of meat from the middle of his pie and blowing on it.

Sherlock mused, lips pursed ( _ Jim Moriarty … _ ). “They're not just scared John, they're terrified.”


	11. Life Dedicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 11 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Bannered Mare  
> Jeremy Soule • The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Original Game Soundtrack
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XtvRB1mMWo  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6BG6rbPZp6lEXy7KN2mCDg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

While the rest of the room appeared to release the breath it had been holding since the unwelcome man’s appearance, Sherlock remained on edge throughout dinner, his gaze drawn distractedly to the door, as if he wasn't fully convinced the unwelcome visitor would not reappear.

And Sherlock did not speak again during their meal save, at one point, to demand (John sighed) the pepper which he proceeded to grind aggressively onto the pie he then pushed about his plate rather than actually eat. 

Finally, towards the end of the meal, Sherlock returned his full focus to their table, for it appeared (John sighed again) the sole purpose, of summoning a fit of pique at the the topic of John’s previously undisclosed middle name.

“It was never a secret, Sherlock, it’s printed on my birth certificate for god's sake,” John kept his tone calm, refusing to be drawn in. He then gently chided. “I’m actually surprised you hadn’t already obtained a copy of it.”

“Still,” Sherlock pouted, seemingly unwilling to let the matter go. “It seems a bit rude of you not to have shared that particular piece of information with me, considering the nature of our relationship.”

John snorted. “If we want to talk about rude, let's talk about the way you terrorised that poor Gardaí today. You know, you could try being nice once in a while.”

Sherlock’s fingers fidgeted on the table as his eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled, inexplicably managing to channel both arrogant petulance and fragile insecurity at the same time. “That wouldn’t really be the real me now would it?”

And as always, John melted in affection for the brilliantly difficult man he had dedicated his life to …

_ Dedicated his life … where had that come from?  _

While the veracity of the revelation caught him slightly off guard, he knew it without question, to be completely true and without pausing, he proceeded to cover Sherlock’s restless hand with own smaller one, stilling it. “No, it wouldn't be you, and I do really love the  _ real _ you.”

At John's words, Sherlock appeared to relax, the corners of his eyes softening and his hands quieting.

“Time for bed, then?” John held Sherlock’s gaze as he took his last swig of beer before placing the glass back on the coaster and pushing it towards the centre of the table.

Sherlock nodded, not breaking eye contact, and together they rose from the table to collect their key from the front desk.


	12. Fully Realized

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 12 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Saturn (Instrumental)  
> Sleeping At Last • Atlas: Space (Deluxe)
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-m7zi66ddc  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3ruBQU9YbaCP3DchyKNK4V 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ John _

Old wooden floorboards, covered in more recent times in a thick navy carpet, groaned under their footsteps as they made their way up the stairs to the second floor. Squeezing the brass handle as he turned the key in the lock, John let them into their room for the night and with Sherlock instantly declaring his intention to commandeer the first shower, John was left to himself to consider their lodgings in what little remained of the night.

Small but adequate, the dim overhead light did little to illuminate the room, save to cast long soft shadows over the bed and the antique bathing pitcher and basin sitting atop the dresser. Central heating — another modern addition to the old building — served to warm the room nicely, but crossing the room to stand next to the narrow window, John could still feel the chill of the cold night air through the thin panes of glass.

Below the window, a large oak tree, stripped bare of its foliage, commanded most of the space in the small courtyard. Through the small gate to its left, John could just make out a small number of headstones. And in the dim light of the room, his attention captured by the scene, it didn't take long for John to become fully lost in thought of a life dedicated to Sherlock and what that might look like, fully realized.

_ Sherlock _

Shower finished, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom naked, damp hair glistening in the low light of the small room, to stand behind John at the windowsill. Pressing his bare chest to the prickly wool of John's jumper, Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s waist. John exhaled and melted back into the touch, his head tilting to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closing gently.

Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, damp curls, warm breath, the contrasting sensations making John shiver as Sherlock stroked his hands up over John's chest and back down again.

_ Closer. _

Sherlock hummed as he grasped the bottom hem of John's jumper and tugged it, breaking the contact of their bodies for a moment as he encouraged John to raise his arms, drawing the jumper up and over his head and tossed it onto the chair.

_ Better. _

He pressed his chest back again, this time to the smooth cotton of John's checkered button down and his long fingers begin to pick elegantly at the buttons at the top.

John placed a hand over Sherlocks to still him. “I need a shower.”

“No need,” Sherlock removed his hand from beneath John's to continue. “I like how you smell. You smell of you”.

Finally Sherlock eased the last button through and pushed John's shirt fronts aside to stroke the smooth planes of his chest firmly.

John sighed and dropped his chin, his left hand coming up thread his fingers lightly through Sherlocks curls as he continued his ministrations down John’s external obliques and back up again.

With his shirt open, the cold coming through the window, nipples peaked, John shivered again.

_ More. _

“Let's get you warm,” Sherlock whispered into the fine blonde hair at the nape of John's neck.


	13. Quieting, Stilling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 13 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> War of Hearts (Acoustic Version)  
> Ruelle • War of Hearts (Acoustic Version) 
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5paJrsIkqg  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2aJWkpCXMvIIZISkMQr1lE 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf

_ Sherlock _

It had been two months, seven days, forty three minutes and seventeen seconds since Sherlock had first known John intimately. There had been many times since then, and every time Sherlock found there was more to discover about this beautiful man. Another way to make his breath hitch, to pull those needy whimpers from his lips. Another way to love him.

And that intimacy had created a fascinating (albeit distractingly undesired) maelstrom of emotions in that place in his mind, his body, where the absence of sentiment had once held court so firmly. Confidence, insecurity, lust and envy; they roiled in him. 

For the most part he was able to ride their ebb and flow, rationalizing emergence and interpreting their cause for departure. But this, the appearance of a man who had in one single interaction been able to capture John's attention so thoroughly, and with it, of course, his own, had upset that delicate equilibrium he had previously been able to rely on to center himself during such times.

_ Mine _ .

It was a childish thought, borne of a possessive ownership he couldn't seem to shake, distracting him during dinner, consuming him during his shower. And now, not wanting John to see this ... fault in his reasoning, weakness in the face of all evidence to the contrary ( _ John had never given him reason to doubt before _ ) he sat astride John's thighs, smoothing the planes of his chest rhythmically, and focused all his energy on worshiping the body inhabited by the wonderful man he loved so deeply.

_ John _

_ Quieting and stilling. _

The pub patrons downstairs had taken their chatter out into the night with the call of last drinks and with the thick carpet muffling the remaining sounds, it was now just this room, their room, them.

John had felt the change in Sherlocks energy since dinner, the shift in his focus from … something else, someone else, to wholly him. And now, as now he watched the man leaning over him, saw the reverence in his gaze, in his touch, he felt …  _ humbled _ .

As John unbuckled his jeans and shimmied his pants down his legs with them, Sherlock leant to one side to assist. As soon as he had kicked his remaining clothes off John felt the sudden overwhelming need to be as close to Sherlock as possible and pulled him down flush onto his body. 

Sherlock's skin, still warm from his shower, enveloped him, consumed him at every point where it pressed to his body, chest, legs, arms. Gathering the face of the beautiful detective in his hands, he stared into those captivating pale eyes and kissed him gently. 

“You know I love you, right?” John’s question searching Sherlock's face, his mind. 

Sherlock's eyes closed as he nodded infinitesimally.

“I love you, and I will never stop loving you.”

Sherlock's eyes opened as his head tilted, evaluating John's words. “How can you know? That's not something you can know.”

John smiled tenderly at the great man, his soul mate. “I know me and I know you. I know us.”

Sherlock took one more moment to evaluate the truth of John's declaration and then mirroring John, he cradled John's face in his beautiful large hands and kissed him back deeply.


	14. Save Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 14 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Praise You - Piano Version  
> Hannah Grace • Praise You - Piano Version
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3emgFna_Tc  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/19P0UsZauaMgf8UwJV1TgZ?si=Npa0BKBKRhq5RX7p-G1Dwg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=H6qSDb8TRnqkGDLXztlDWg

_ Sherlock _

The gentle languor of their kisses, slow and deep, made way eventually for a burning need to be closer still. And slowly, deeply, the night, their love, took them both. Fingertips and lips and tongues traced patterns. Puffs of heated breath on heated skin, quick sharp inhales and slow drawn out sighs. Bodies drawn tight, fingers laced, moving slowly, incessantly against and with each other.  

There wasn't an inch, not a bare millimeter of John's skin that Sherlock did not know, had not mapped in infinite detail. But despite his depth of knowledge on the unfathomable complexity of the landscape that was John Watson's taut, compact, utterly perfect body, inexplicably, every touch always felt new. As if together their skin reacted, fizzed, particles rushing together searching for each other to create a wholly new bond each and every time they were together. 

And so, Sherlock catalogued again, the way in which John's eyebrows (twelve shades of blonde and two of grey), moved as he rubbed his thumb across them. How the midnight of John’s eyes deepened with the curl of their tongues together and how those depths sparked with each flick and nibble. And the way in which the lines that had started to etch their way into the contours of John’s face, through his history and their experiences faded when it was just them. Safe. With each other. 

_ John. His John. His. _

Sherlock pushed himself back, long thighs either side of John's hips, knees digging into the duvet, and searched the nightstand blindly for …  _ yes, that was where he had placed it. _ Allowing the chilled liquid to warm in his hand first, Sherlock reached a slick hand back behind him to smooth his way down John's thickening shaft to the base, to his balls and perineum beyond. Soft, strong, fragile, warm. So very warm, he stroked up and back. Drawing John’s gaze, he gave him a sly smile, and twisting his wrist with a flick as his hand neared the crown he delved back down again. 

The heartfelt groan from John's throat rumbled along his torso and through Sherlock's thighs where their skin was joined. 

Sometimes ( _ frequently _ ) Sherlock found it difficult to express in words his regard for this amazing man, but this, this was a language they both understood.  The “love you upon every stuttered inhale, the “adore you" with every breathless sigh and the “I would give my life for you” in every carefully fingerprinted caress.  

John struggled to lie still under Sherlock's deft ministrations, forcing his head back into the soft pillow, exposing the vulnerable tendons in his muscular neck. And as Sherlock bent down to nuzzle in its warmth, John bemoaned breathlessly, “When do I get to touch you Sherlock? Let me touch you.”  

“I want to take care of you tonight, John,” Sherlock's baritone rumbled against John's neck. 

Threading his fingers through the curls on each side of Sherlock's head, he encouraged Sherlock's head back so he could stare into his eyes. “OK,” John agreed, “but together?”  

Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to deny John anything. 

_ Together then. _

John drew Sherlock onto his side, wrapping their joined hands around both their now very hard cocks in a warm slick slide.  

Both looking down, pants became moans and moans became hitching desperate gulps of air until Sherlock felt John dig his heel into the bed, looking for greater leverage, gut clenched chasing his orgasm. And then John was coming and Sherlock straight after, head thrown back in a silent cry. 

“You are gorgeous, you know that? Absolutely fucking gorgeous. And brilliant and amazing. Whatever did I do to deserve you?” John searched Sherlock’s eyes as he ran his hand gently up and down his torso, easing Sherlock though the aftershocks of his orgasm. 

Openly, frankly, Sherlock replied. “You save me.” 

And Sherlock disappeared within the depths of John’s beautiful eyes when he replied before they both drifted off to sleep. “As you do me.” 

Sherlock woke a little while later, the moon still reflecting off the same surfaces ( _ not long then _ ) and grabbing the sheet that had been kicked off the bed, he wrapped it around himself and crossed to the bag he had dropped by the door to the bathroom. Retrieving the container of leeches that had been safely nestled at the bottom of the bag, he set the container down on the dresser top and drew himself into the chair by the window.  

Sherlock alternated between observing the creatures, the light hitting their shimmering, sleeping forms just so, and watching John while he slept.  _ What was it about this man who had captured his heart so thoroughly, who had possessed his mind so fiercely? _

And so, he sat and considered until moonlight gave way to the first gentle break of day whereupon he packed the leeches away, shed the sheet and crawled back into bed beside a ( _ his _ ) warm, sleeping John. 


	15. Steer Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tag for this chapter: description of a fox hunt heading out - no details of the hunt itself though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 15 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Watch Your Back  
> Sam Tinnesz • Watch Your Back
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOn0QixT0s8  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/7Lv0PI1TQzps3ygOss0spc?si=L3pc07j2SC6GfJiiCwoaHQ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=MF6SEyHrQxyUJx-iZHkcmw

_ John _

Coming downstairs just before ten the next morning, they expected to have missed most of the morning breakfast rush. Instead they found the pub overrun by a crowd of noisy horse riders, all pale tight breeches, fitted black jackets and tan-topped black boots. _ Drinking beer, seriously? _ John raised an incredulous eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. 

“Hunters,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The huntmaster,” he jerked his head in the direction of a rider standing off to the side, in a bright red jacket. “They call it  _ pink _ . As if that makes any sense.” 

John frowned. “I thought fox hunting was illegal?” 

“Banned in England, still legal in parts of Ireland. Galway,” Sherlock intoned drolly. “Appears to be one of those places.” 

John's nose wrinkled in distaste and then his eyebrows arched rapidly as an equally distasteful thought occurred to him. “You didn't, you haven’t, you know …”. 

“Hardly John,” Sherlock sounded quite put out. “There is absolutely no element of sophistication to this type of sporting endeavor. Just a bunch of drunken louts throwing themselves over hedges and trying desperately to cling onto their harried mounts. I rode dressage of course.” 

“Of course you did, posh boy,” John’s lips quirked in a smile. 

“What?” Sherlock's nose wrinkled in suspicious confusion. 

“Nothing,” John cast him a fond look. “I’ll get us something to go then. You want to check us out?” 

Sherlock nodded and they parted ways, Sherlock to the front and John attempting to insinuate himself through the raucous mob to the bar. 

They met up again five minutes later on the pavement outside the pub, John carrying two brown paper bags and Sherlock with their overnight bags in hand. Any hope they might have had for a quick getaway was swiftly dashed as they rounded the corner to the cul-de-sac to find it filled to overflowing with riders and their mounts, the horses standing free or hitched to the sides of trailers. 

“Right then,” John sighed resignedly, leaning back against the bonnet of the Land Rover. “It doesn't look like we’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.” 

Sherlock opened the driver’s door and tossed their bags in the back before taking up position, long legs outstretched, alongside John. John handed him one of the brown bags and took a contemplative bite out of his sandwich as they both surveyed the scene in front of them. 

Directly in front of them was a group of four riders. Flanked by the huntmaster and a similarly red-coated whipper-in on his left and a shorter rider on a stocky grey horse to his right, the middle rider, astride a tall, lean bay, stood out in tightly controlled contrast. While the grey on the right repeatedly stomped a large back hoof and swished its tail in dramatic petulance, the bay, a mirror of its rider, stood stock still, muscles tensed, nostrils flaring as it snorted the chilled morning air. As more riders took up position around them, the bay’s rider urged his mount forward and swung around the back of the group, bringing his horse and himself face to face with Sherlock and John. 

_ Jim Moriarty _ . 

Suddenly the morning air felt much colder. 

Moriarty grinned, all teeth, as if he had known they were there all along and tipped his black velvet riding helmet to John in feigned deference. He then proceeded to walk his horse in front of them, necessitating Sherlock’s hasty withdrawal of his legs, to make his way to the front of the pack alongside the first, experienced flight of horses. 

Sherlock threw John a sharp look and John felt something pierce his gut, something that he could only identify as … _guilt_? But before he could open his mouth to protest his innocence, an unfamiliar voice startled him; a low intoned warning. “I’d steer clear of that one if I were you.” 

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock drew his eyes away from the uncomfortableness that was playing out on John’s face to take in the appearance at their side of one of the old men from the bar the previous night, the thinner of the two. 

“You are acquainted?” Despite his internal seething at Moriarty’s unwelcome reappearance, Sherlock aimed for detached, uninterested and was considerably pleased to find that he had succeeded. 

The old man assessed Sherlock carefully, but having started, seemed comfortable enough to elaborate. 

“James Moriarty’s kid. Good man James. Lovely wife too. A great loss the both of them.  Kid went off to live in Dublin after the fire - rich relatives. Left a troubled kid. Came back a man with money.” He took a breath and a drawn out pause and continued. “Bought the O’Madden place at Kilnaborris. Spends most of his time elsewhere but always comes back for the first hunt of the season.” 

“Seems to me you are taking quite a risk speaking so freely to a couple of complete strangers,” Sherlock studied the old man's dull grey eyes intently. 

The man shrugged. “Got less to lose than most … and even less time to live.” 

“You don't like him,” John surmised. 

“Not a lot  _ to _ like. Got a dead man’s eyes and a dead man's money; nothing but bad luck to be had there. You'd be best served not attracting his attention.” 

_ A little too late for that, _ Sherlock mused wryly as the horses, anticipating the start of the hunt, shifted in place, and pulled his gaze to them. In the same moment Moriarty rose up in his stirrups and turned in the saddle to fix them one last look before spurring his horse into a gallop to lead the pack off. 

Sherlock turned back to the old man at his side to find him already gone, shuffling slowly, halfway down the path towards the exit. Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who was watching the last of the horses take off. “I've seen enough, let's go.”


	16. Not Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 16 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> A Storm is Comin  
> Tommee Profitt/Liv Ash • Cinematic Songs, Vol. 5
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cU4J17q8lsg  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6SBFlmSGNwXUmewVLLFdsT?si=LY0CyuPNTyiXhz9nMXC2LA 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

John hadn't said a word since they had climbed into the vehicle and set off for the morgue. For the last half an hour Sherlock had been lost in thought too, mulling over the unwelcome reappearance of one Jim Moriarty and the sense of futility in the old man’s words. John however, could always be counted on for not staying silent for long, Sherlock expected whatever had also been bubbling up inside him at Moriarty's reappearance would make itself shown soon enough. And true to form, not two minutes later … 

“What does he want with us? Me?” John demanded. “I haven't even spoken to the man.” 

Sherlock stared at the motorway stretching out ahead of them and frowned, lips pursed. “I don't know. And I  _ really _ don't like not knowing.” 


	17. Bitten. Extensively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 17 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Demon House (Main Theme)  
> Mimi Page • Demon House (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXZAh1ZtG_w   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6kDAc7oOGzPKf4oUW6MTji 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

The morgue was unremarkable in the way that morgues tended to be. A musty cramped staff room, filled with overstuffed, mismatched lounges. Flowery thank you cards, the more recent ones, brighter and shinier, framing those that had lived on the walls longer. Scuffed, grey linoleum floors, yellowing taupe walls  _ (what was the medical fraternity's obsession with that ghastly colour?)  _ and the ubiquitous stainless steel tables, upon one of which rested, “their” body-bagged corpse.

Les, the  _ (calloused, tattooed, clearly only still working in order to collect a full pension) _ blue scrubbed mortuary manager loomed in the corner while Sherlock proceeded to open the zip and pull the overhead lamp down closer to the body. Bright white light flooded the corpse's now fully exposed skin, deepening the pores, thickening the hairs and providing an explicit picture of the man's last hours.

_ Bitten. Extensively. _

The several hundred razor sharp teeth in each leech’s mouth had left their distinctive tripartite mark over every surface of the man's body. _Fewer on the torso and arms_ (Sherlock heaved the body up onto its side, John instinctively moving to assist by pulling the corpse’s arm over and across his chest), _the_ _majority on the back and underside of the legs._ Incisions so precise as to be virtually invisible when the skin lay flat, limp, but considerably pronounced when Sherlock prised them apart, between gloved forefinger and thumb, to examine their depth.

_ Intriguing _ .

John seemed as equally fascinated by the scene before him, and Sherlock was momentarily distracted as he observed the movement of the ex-army doctor's medically practiced hands working their way precisely over the corpse’s feet and legs. Considering, examining, each wound in turn. Then suddenly a lock of silvery blond hair fell forward as John bent to examine the sole of the man's right foot and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed  _ (something was different ...) _ .

“You missed your last hair appointment,” Sherlock pronounced abruptly, his eyes pinning a slightly startled John to the spot.  _ (John kept to a very strict schedule when it came to his hair, one of the last vestiges of his army service — this was a clear departure). _

“Ahhh, only by a few days,“ John admitted, looking for the world as if he would very much like to rub his hand along the nape of his neck, but prevented from doing so by the barrier of the surgical gloves and the ever present risk of infection. “Why, is it looking scraggly? I was actually … um ... thinking of growing it out a bit ...”

Sherlock, held his gaze and simply declared. “I like it longer. It suits you.”

Les threw a curious look their way but as Sherlock already had his head bent his head down, resuming his examination, John was the only one to catch it and blushed just a little.

Sherlock continued his contemplation.  _ No identifying features. Average height, average build, middle age, no tattoos, no scars, blood type?  _ He reached for the autopsy file lying on a nearby trolley, flipping through it quickly and then tossing it back down again.  _ Of course, O-positive - common. _

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded abruptly of the corpse. “And why did you decide to die this way?

_ John _

_Frank had been right_ , John thought as he studied the body, _there really was_ _not_ _much to see._ The corpse was, for all intents and purposes (if one ignored the hundreds of tiny incisions), fully intact.

As Sherlock moved down the body to the feet, John’s examination, on the other side of the table, moved up towards the man’s head.  _ A few bites on his face, cheeks, and jaw, the rest of his upper torso, relatively unscathed. _

John reached for the autopsy file Sherlock had discarded. Apart from a significant blood loss, the examination had revealed little else.  _ Slight cirrhosis of the liver and a tonsillectomy the only things of note. _

“Tox screen?”

Sherlock’s question interrupted John's inner monologue. “Let’s see, negative for … hmm, interesting ... negative for everything.”

“Could blood loss have masked the presence of a drug in his system?” Sherlock challenged.

“A little, perhaps,” John allowed, glancing up at him from the file, eyebrows scrunched in consideration, ”but even with a reduced rate of blood flow to the tissue, some of it would have had to bind and there is absolutely no trace of anything in the report.”

“Entirely of your own volition ...” Sherlock tilted his head, regarding the corpse.

“So we still don't know who he is?” John prompted.

Standing up abruptly, Sherlock snapped off his gloves and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He thumbed through the tabs on the screen. “No record in police files; no fingerprints, no DNA matching to anyone's system.”

“So nothing? We've got nothing? Maybe poor unfortunate Gardai Glen didn't do too much damage after all?” John couldn't hold back his grin as Sherlock huffed, un-amusedly ignoring the jibe and instead nodded his completion at Les and exited the room.

Flinging his own gloves in the garbage bin on his way out the door, John caught up with Sherlock halfway down the corridor and muttered. “Nothing. Well that was a waste of time.”

“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled as he wrung his hands together.. “A man with no identity and no motive. That’s everything!”

 


	18. Different Route

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 18 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Restlessness  
> Audiomachine • La Belle Époque
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0I2NAg42m44  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0csKKjGdvLRoRDAG9ZdsJZ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_John_

The journey back up the motorway to Dublin held as little surprise as the corpse. Mile after mile rolled by soundlessly, and wordlessly, as a comfortable silence enveloped them. With Sherlock seemingly set behind the wheel, John was just about ready to doze off when the Land Rover took an unexpected right turn off the M6.

John shot a curious glance at Sherlock. “Wouldn't it be faster to stay on the motorway?”

“I just need to take a look at something, it’s not too far out of the way,” Sherlock dismissed, providing no further explanation.

After about five minutes, tight winding lanes gave way to a straight stretch of road lined by long-established trees, and just before the next intersection, Sherlock pulled the vehicle over to the side, directly across the road from a large manor house. Aside from its size, John didn't think there was anything else particularly remarkable about the large stone building until his eyes were drawn to the black and white signpost slightly to the left of the front gate.

**_Coill na Boirghéise_ **

**Kilnaborris**

John glanced sharply at Sherlock's face in profile and that same sharp sliver of guilt caught in his throat again. _Why guilt? He had nothing to feel guilty about!_ Sherlock’s face remained impassive, seeming oblivious to John’s reaction, as he studied, eyes narrowed, eyebrows drawn together, the house and grounds. Following Sherlock’s gaze, John could make out in the far distance, a lone tree overlooking a body of shallow, reedy water. In the tree’s shadow, with his back to them, a figure stood, dressed in a olive tweed jacket and derby flat cap.

_Definitely male. But taller and broader; not Moriarty._

The man, having given a command to the dog attentive at his side (a black labrador), raised a shotgun to his shoulder as the animal took off into the reeds, flushing out a duck in its path. Straight up the bird flew, and then plummeted down just as quickly, limpy, heavily to the ground, felled by a single shot. As the man lowered his gun and let it hang by his side, a sense of deja vu overcame John _(something about the gun ...)_ . He shook his head to clear the strangeness and brought his attention back to Sherlock who had in that time, turned back to the Land Rover. John climbed back into the vehicle. Sherlock drew the rear passenger door open and fished around in his overnight bag. John watched as he drew out the container of leeches and bent to release them in the ditch alongside the road. Still without saying a word, he tossed the now empty container in the back, shut the passenger door and climbed into the driver seat. Sherlock silently turned the key in the engine, swinging the vehicle back out into the road. John glanced back one last time.

_Who exactly was that? And perhaps more (concerningly) to the point, why weren't they going to talk about this?_

_Sherlock_

Sherlock didn't say a word the rest of the way back to Dublin and he figured that if John had noticed, he didn't think it out of the ordinary _(“just another one of Sherlock’s moods”)._ But this wasn't just one of his moods. This _was_ out of the ordinary. Just like that, in a split second, Sherlock had been taken back to the moment Guerin died, the moment that he had felt, for the first time in his life, mind numbingly, paralysingly mortal. He just couldn't escape the feeling that he was _(correction, they were)_ hurtling towards something not good; and that it was not going to end at all well.

As soon as Sherlock had tossed the keys to the Land Rover to the clerk at the rental desk in the airport, he muttered some excuse to John about needing to use the washroom, and found himself a quiet corner of the airport to make his call.

“Brother mine. How lovely to hear from you. Enjoying your tour of the Irish countryside?” came the voice on the other end.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft had honed the skill of speaking down his nose to fine art form however he was not going to be drawn into a battle of pissiness just yet. “Where is Sebastian Moran?”

“What, no pleasantries?”

“Where is he, Mycroft?”

“Are you by any chance referring to _Agent_ Moran? If so, you know as well as I that that is classified information.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You know where he is stationed,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Yes,” Sherlock drew out the ‘s’, gritting his teeth. “I do know where he is stationed. What I want to know is where he is _right now_.”

“What is this about, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s tone sharpened slightly.

 _Finally he had his brother’s attention._ “Let's just call it a happy coincidence.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“Have you ever known of one?” Sherlock countered.

Mycroft sniffed and then sighed. “Give me a moment.”.

Sherlock regarded the rows of unoccupied chairs in the empty terminal as he waited; boring, uncomfortable. The carpet; boring, ugly. He resorted to closing his eyes against the drudgery of it all as he waited. Of course did not have to wait long, what with Mycroft’s minions always close at hand to do his bidding at a moment’s notice.

Mycroft’s voice came back on the line. “It appears that he is on leave and we are unable to locate his precise location at this time.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to assume an air of condescension. “Let me assist you in that regard, brother dear. Around an hour ago he was to be found shooting pheasant in the grounds of Jim Moriarty's house in Galway.”

An uncharacteristic silence settled into the call before Mycroft carefully spoke. “How are you involved with Jim Moriarty, Sherlock?”

“Lets just say I recently had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.” Sherlock’s distaste at the non sequitur rolled bitterly off his tongue.

“Sherlock, Jim Moriarty is not someone who's acquaintance you want to be making.”

“How interesting, you happen to be the _second_ person to inform me of that today.”

“We need to talk.” Mycroft demanded. “In person.”

“I'll be in London in three hours.”

 


	19. People Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 19 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Breathe  
> Fleurie • Love and War
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQVop3-OOXc  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/4lgavUrn8yLNPXg0c6f6Mm 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_John_

On the other side of a (thankfully) uneventful flight back to London in which Sherlock had closed his eyes prior to takeoff and proceeded to ignore everyone and everything for the duration, now, making their way through arrivals, Sherlock was distant _,_ distracted _;_ _concerning._

“Hungry?” John proffered his bag of crisps as they crossed the airport concourse to the taxi rank outside.

When Sherlock shook his head, John wasn't entirely surprised. Sherlock was more than a little preoccupied at the moment and his focus on basic metabolic needs was never the most robust at the best of times.

John was surprised however, when Sherlock gestured to the first cab and declared, “you take this one. I'll get another.”

John’s mind’s journey from confused to suspicious took less than a second. “Why? Where are you going?”

“I have to go and pay Mycroft a visit.”

“Voluntarily?” John's eyebrows raised significantly along with his tone as he turned to face Sherlock. “You want to tell me what the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock? You keeping me in the dark is starting to piss me off.”

“I already told you, John,” Sherlock snarled back. “I don't know, but I am trying to find out.”

And just like that the _(blood vessel popping, migraine inducing, utterly infuriating selfish git of a)_ man grabbed the cab for himself, and left John standing on the footpath, staring after the rapidly retreating taxi and muttering the word “arse” not so quietly under his breath.

_Sherlock_

_Probably shouldn’t have done that._

_Probably should have suggested John accompany me._

_P_ _robably_ _definitely an arse._

Sherlock didn't have the time to dwell on the ways he was going to have to atone for his “arse-like” behaviour however, because no sooner had he provided the cabbie with directions to the Diogenes Club, then his phone pinged.

A text message. Unknown number.

 

_roses are red_

_violets are blue_

_people die_

_that's what people do_

 

His eyes narrowed further when the next message appeared; a wav file.

Using his teeth to loosen each of the fingers on the glove on his right hand, Sherlock flung it unceremoniously onto the seat beside him and tapped the screen of his phone. The file played. A song. Or at least part of one.

 _Acoustic guitar. Horrible noise._ Sherlock shut it off but not before the cabbie had time to remark.

“Pink Floyd, good taste.”

“I’m sorry?” Clearly he was not, he never was, but Sherlock did understand the obsequious and unfortunately necessary art of information extraction.

“The song … Pigs on the Wing? Pink Floyd?” the cabbie prompted, humming a few bars expectantly ( _as if_ _he was expected to be familiar with such a thing_ ).

 _The musical repertoire of criminals left a lot to be desired,_ Sherlock grimaced, as he entered the necessary information into his phone. The search came back immediately with an album cover consisting of a photo of …

_Of course._

Sherlock rapped sharply on the glass partition. “Change of plans cabbie. Battersea Power Station“.

_ After all, someone was inviting him to play, and it would be churlish to decline the invitation. _


	20. Deja Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 20 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Heart of the Darkness  
> Tommee Profitt (Feat. Sam Tinnesz) • Cinematic Songs Vol. 2
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edB_VJz_jX4  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/7pFC5bvXuO0k1wrcQYlG06?si=75JYkdemS6ik2mVywIOOzA 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_John_

John stomped angrily down the stairs from the cab rank to the tube station below, each step punctuated by a muttered curse; _Arse. Arse. Arse. Arse. Arse._ Why he found himself taken aback each and every time Sherlock reverted to his intractable self, he could not fathom, but surprised _(and thoroughly pissed off)_ he was, just the same. His entire way home, past tube station after tube station, through platform change after platform change, John’s mood vacillated between annoyance and reflection. Annoyance In general at Sherlock's behaviour ( _arse, arse, arse and arse)_ and reflection in particular on their visit to Kilnaborris, which it seemed, had served as the catalyst for Sherlock’s current incendiary mood.

Pushing the door to 221B open, just under an hour later, John’s fuming about his “arse” of a partner had more or less run its course, assuaged for the time being by the determination that they _would_ be having a conversation about it upon Sherlock’s return. Resolved on that issue, he was however, still at a loss as to what exactly what was up with Sherlock. Not unusually, he had no idea where to begin in figuring out that puzzle, but he did have a very good idea about where to start on another. Putting the kettle on, he gathered his laptop from his bedroom, used his forearm to plough the remnants of one of Sherlock’s long-since abandoned experiments to one side of the kitchen table, and settled himself in for the duration.

His search however, proved to be frustratingly unproductive. An article in the _Connacht Tribune_ archives mentioning the fire, the two deaths and the survival of the child but nothing more. A reference on the Galway Blazers hunt club website to its “esteemed” (John treated that word to an eye roll and a huff) patron, one Jim Moriarty. But aside from that, not a lot more.

_A surprisingly small footprint for a man with money._

An hour later (distracted as he was by his quest, the kettle had long since boiled and gone stone cold), John finally took a break to make himself a cuppa. Leaning back against the kitchen worktop, cup cradled, warming his hands, John's thoughts strayed back to Sherlock.

The unpleasantness of Jim Moriarty aside, there _had_ to be more to Sherlock’s discontent. The case, quite definitely a 10, should have captured the man's complete attention, it should be the current centre of his entire universe of deduction. But Sherlock was stuck, somewhere, in something elsewhere.

Sighing ( _OK, back at it_ ), John pushed off against the edge of the bench and reclaimed his seat. He continued his research for the next couple of hours. At one point he got up to dump a can of chicken noodle soup unceremoniously into a saucepan and throw a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. But soon, even food couldn't sustain him. His eyelids began to droop under the glare of the screen, the weight of the day and the fruitlessness of his endeavour.

_He had to call it a night._

But just as he was closing the screen of his laptop, an image caught his eye. A Dublin University Football Club team photo; in white shirts and black shorts, a number of young males sitting on a set of bleachers in front of extremely well manicured turf. And there at the bottom in the roll call, one name stood out amongst the others. J. Moriarty. John traced the reference to a figure in the front row. Grainy, it was hard to make out the features, but there he definitely was. Then a building in the left hand corner of the photo caught his eye (h _e knew that building, he had attended a match there before ..._ ) ...

_Eton._

Suddenly, the deja vu was back. _Morocco. A conversation about Eton ...  ... a recently fired gun being lowered to a man’s side; to Sebastian Moran’s side. Sebastian Moran … Who. Attended. Eton._

_Fuck!_

 

_Sherlock_

To Sherlock’s eternal chagrin, the cabbie had kept up his insipid, off key humming all the way to their destination _(did the song seriously only have one verse?)_

 

_If you didn’t care what happened to me_

_And I didn’t care for you_

_We would zig zag our way through the boredom and pain_

_Occasionally glancing up through the rain_

_Wondering which of the buggers to blame_

_And watching for pigs on the wing_

 

Sherlock stared out the window as they passed the white walled prim residences of the seriously upper class in Belgravia and texted Mycroft.

_Something has come up. SH_


	21. Zig Zag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 21 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Monsters (Acoustic Version)  
> Ruelle • Monsters (Acoustic Version)
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLdrPK0fq3I  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6uGMvvgKIQx1zaNF4g7HG9?si=lIJZ_gKOQ1yFAwHUtFVYEQ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_Sherlock_

As the elaborately laid brickwork and towering chimneys of the Battersea Power Station came into view, Sherlock allowed that there was something to be admired in a structure that had managed to retain, even in its most neglected years, a stylistic dominance.

The Station had been, for the longest time the exclusive realm of rodents, roughians, and the occasional film crew looking for a suitably moody backdrop to film the antics of their overpaid, temperamental “talent” _(actors, ugh)._ But now, the coal-burning relic was currently in the throes of a modern day revival. Spurned on by the insatiable demand for new residences in the heart of London, the structure that had remained largely unoccupied for the last 30 years, was undergoing a “regeneration” of sorts.

_Unnecessary; how many more soulless blocks of flats did the world actually need?_

_And irritating._

Irritating, because as difficult as the labyrinthine interior had been to traverse in search of a hit during its period of abandonment (for his dealers and himself it had provided the necessary seclusion and geographical convenience), the acres of makeshift cordoning now surrounding the Station, and the multitude of cranes and scaffolding cluttering its inside, was going to make the task nearly insurmountable.

_Nearly. But not quite. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes._

And _Sherlock Holmes_ had deduced that the killer ( _this could only be a body retrieval exercise after all - “people die”, present tense_ ) would have needed to arrive as unobtrusively as possible. So he had the cabbie drop him off at a construction service road at the rear of A Station; no expensive equipment, just piles of dirt and rubble - so no surveillance cameras. He pushed against the chain link fence and the lock swung free in invitation.

_Handy. And deliberate._

Left open for ease of the killer (and now his) access. A gift he was grateful for in that it was going to save him from having to go in through the roof. Though it still would have been a great deal easier to have been doing all this without his overnight bag … _Perhaps he should have given it to John? Hmm ..._ (he considered the look John had graced him with upon his departure), _perhaps not …_

Entering on the ground level saved him the considerable time it would have taken to traverse the scaffolded exoskeleton of the tower but it still left him with the not inconsiderable task of searching all the chambers and access corridors. Late in the day, with construction work having ceased, at least his efforts wouldn’t be complicated by the need to avoid (or tediously explain his presence to) any officious little project managers. He was however, still left with over a dozen floors to descend.

_Into the belly of the beast._

Spotlights hanging from the brickwork, powered by a generator grumbling deep within the old turbine walls, lit the way down. Finding most of the internal corridors locked, Sherlock’s path was less methodical sweeping and more zig zagging maze navigation.

 _Frustrating_.

For a fleeting moment he considered demanding more precise coordinates from his anonymous texter - clearly they wanted the body to be found, but no, even if he could get a signal in the bowels of this building, the world's foremost _(only)_ consulting detective did not require hints like an bumbling amatuer idiot trying to solve an escape room scenario. So on he continued, tracking and backtracking until finally he reached it, bathed in orange light; Control Room A in all its archaic glory, filled with hundreds of dials and switches, Art Deco inlay and intricately patterned tiles.

But, as it turned out, absolutely, completely and utterly lacking the prerequisite body.

_If not A, then B._

Sherlock sighed and tried (but failed), to ignore the voice in his head that quite chose to remind him at each floor he now had to ascend, that it would have been far quicker if he had asked John to accompany him.

_Yes, obviously, thank you._

Now for the other side.

Following the path of a recessed gantry, Sherlock swept from the open floor into the darkened arteries leading to Switch Room B.

_The second half of the brain._

In roughly the same amount of time it had taken him to locate Control Room A, Sherlock now found himself enveloped in the dark heavy, machinery of Switch Room B. Where A Station had been a study in preservation, B Station, always the less attractive of the pair, had been completely gutted, and the ground beneath his feet was mud pitted with the tracks of heavy machinery. No Italian marble or Art Deco stylings here; just function and purpose without the glamour. The Switch room gave way to a hoarded area behind it, and there in the semi-darkness, up against the pipes and vessels, in the cold damp concrete bunker, she was.

_Deceased. Recently. Young. Female. Willing. But assisted. No note. No knife. Minimal blood._

No leeches this time, but a second body.

And a flower.


	22. Summoning Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 22 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Storm
> 
> Greg Dombrowski • Secession Studios
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCLT0HNJLWw 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3EsCD4fUgEMwdJhNBYytfU?si=foQRrdveQTC5k0Zeqvvh_w 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock heard them before he saw them. Half an hour later, eleven of the Yard's finest, approaching the crime scene like a gaggle of tourists viewing the Tower of London for the first time.

_How any crime scene remained unmolested, and any criminal arrested in the face of such overwhelming ineptitude was, quite frankly, astonishing._

Bringing up the rear, in a crumbled cheap suit, and announcing his arrival with a “bloody hell” was of course Detective Inspector Lestrade. And to be fair, the scene was … to say the least, dramatically staged. Strung up on a three horizontal, rusted pipes, between two large supporting vessels, the victim was naked, arranged in a pose of crucifixion, arms wide, legs together and head bowed, hair completely obscuring her face.

The team spread out, securing the scene, flooding it with light and the steady silence of focused work. Lestrade moved to Sherlock’s side. “So what have we got?”

“Dead, obviously. No bruising except for the ligature points. No defensive wounds, no obvious signs of coercion.”

Sherlock stepped lightly onto a tarpaulin that had now been laid down to on one side of the pipes structure, and moved closer to the body. The forensic team, having donned their blue coveralls, had begun their task of cataloguing the scene in the now extremely cramped space; the floor, the walls, the door, and the victim herself ...

“How is it that you are here before us … ?” One of the blue-suited figures moved into Sherlock’s path.

_Anderson. Always Anderson._

“I received a message.”

“Murderers got you on speed dial now?” Anderson sneered.

“That’s enough,” Lestrade sighed, already exhausted.

Anderson stepped to the side reluctantly and Sherlock moved in even closer, bending his head to take another look at her bowed one. Lestrade followed suit. Taking a pen from Lestrade’s top pocket (Lestrade didn’t even flinch, so used was he to Sherlock's invasion of his personal space), Sherlock drew back the veil of dark hair that had fallen limpy around the victim's face.

“Helleborus, the Winter Rose,” Sherlock revealed the flower set between her teeth.

“A … _romantic_ gesture ..?” Lestrade scrunched his nose at the incongruence.

“Not quite. The plant gets its name from the ancient greek heleîn, "to injure", and borá, meaning "food". All helleborus plants are toxic, and all parts of the helleborus plant are toxic.”

“So, she was poisoned?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Suicide. But she had help. Dead within the last two hours.”

“You couldn't possibly know all that already,” Anderson declared aggressively, moving into their space.

_It really would be better if Anderson never spoke, or thought for that matter._

“Self ingested,” Sherlock addressed Lestrade, indicating the crystallisation present alongside a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. “No marks to indicate any force was necessary. The toxin is a cardiac glycoside, it would have resulted in dysrhythmia and progressed rapidly to ventricular tachycardia. Not a peaceful death. So the flower would have had to been placed there after death. Dirt on the backs of her arms, buttocks and legs,” he moved behind the body. “She was lying on the floor when she died.”

Anderson regarded him skeptically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and drew an exasperated breath. “Helleborus are notoriously fickle flowers, drooping completely within a couple of hours of being cut,” he used the pen to poke at the bloom that had only just started to wilt.

Thankfully, lest he have to endure Anderson's inane questions any longer, his phone chose that moment to deliver a number of text messages.

From John.

_Where are you?_

_Heading to bed._

_Try not to wake me when you get in._

And finally

_I think Moran is working with Moriarty._

Sherlock smiled to himself as he pocketed his phone. Well done John.

“So what the hell is all this then, a sign, a message?” Lestrade demanded his attention.

“The crucifixion is not technically or historically accurate so most likely staged for shock value rather than a depiction of Christian iconography. And the flower - it’s been used for centuries as suicidal aid, to cure madness and to poison enemies. In folklore witches were also said to summon demons with it.”

Sherlock turned back to the body.

_The flower - now that was an interesting choice._


	23. Social Call?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 23 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Blackbird Song  
> Lee DeWyze • Frames
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wbgb3lgMluA  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/41FUDbrnvoc7RH0APur9jy?si=7Eykpr3JTXa0cr08jdZPOQ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

The next morning, John was sitting in his armchair, weekday newspaper in his lap, when Sherlock, already dressed for the day in a white shirt and tight black trousers, wandered into the room. Sherlock vaguely remembered John stirring and muttering what he suspected was the word “arse” as he had crawled into bed after returning from the crime scene in the small hours of the night, and wondered if now was the time that they would be having “the talk”..” Just in case, he took a preemptively evasive route to the kitchen.

“Sherlock,” John prompted, stalling his journey. “I don't know if you saw my text but I was doing some research last night  _ (OK, not in trouble … yet) _ and the man with the dog? I can’t be certain but I am pretty sure it was …”

But before John could finish the sentence there was a sharp rap on the door. Not the street-front door, but the door to the flat itself.

John flashed him a curious glance. “Expecting someone?”

Sherlock studied the door, his response low and cautious. “No.”

John folded the paper, tossed it on the side table and crossed the room to open the door. On the other side stood Lestrade.

“Social call?” John inquired, stepping back and to the side to allow the Detective Inspector entrance to the flat.

Sherlock studied the expression on Lestrade’s face and the presence of the two additional officers, previously hidden from view, behind him. “No, John,” Sherlock turned back towards John without acknowledging Lestrade’s presence. “This is  _ not  _ a social call.”

He saw John immediately tense, the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist as his respiration rate slowed and his shoulders eased backwards.

_ Soldier. Yes, he would need a soldier. _

Lestrade seemed  _ (rightly so _ ) particularly uncomfortable in the situation he had found himself, and  _ (unsurprisingly) _ chose to hide behind the formality of standard procedure in addressing the elephant in the room. “Sherlock Holmes. You are being placed under arrest as a suspect in the murder of an unidentified individual at the Battersea Power Station at approximately 8pm yesterday evening.” Lestrade motioned one of the officers forward as he continued. “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you?”

Sherlock didn't respond or even move from his position on the floor, eyes fixed on John.

“Come on Sherlock,” Lestrade encouraged, the softness of his tone belying the implied threat of his words. “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”

_ John _

With those words, the Detective Inspector succeeded in drawing Sherlock’s gaze back to him and had the simultaneous effect of provoking John into action. “What the bloody hell is going on?” he angrily demanded of Lestrade and anyone in the room who could provide him with an answer.

Turning to proffer his wrists to the closest officer, Sherlock looked back over his shoulder towards John. “I’ll meet you at The Yard, John.”

John’s gaze was drawn from Sherlock’s eyes to the cold steel closing around his delicately pale wrists. “Handcuffs? Is that really necessary Lestrade?”

“At The Yard, John,” Sherlock repeated slowly, calmly, deliberately.

John shot him what he hoped was a reassuring look ( _ I'll be there _ ). Sherlock nodded solemnly and then jerked his head in Lestrade’s direction.

The officer proceeded to lead Sherlock out the door. Lestrade followed behind. When he reached the doorway, he paused and gave John a look that he could only assume was sympathy.

_ Sympathetic _ ? John stormed.  _ You are going to be a lot more than sympathetic when I am finished with you. _

“John, what is it? What has he done? Where are they taking him?” Mrs Hudson pushed past the procession on the stairs and burst into the room in a flurry of nervous energy and concern, her eyes wide and hands restless. “I wouldn’t have let them up if I had known!” 

“Nothing you could have done, Mrs. Hudson.” John put a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he bent to retrieve his wallet and keys from the bowl at the front door.

“You get him out of this, John. He needs you,” she beseeched.  

John nodded grimly, and retrieving Sherlock’s Belstaff from the hook behind the door, took a long deep breath and headed out behind them.


	24. The Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 24 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> When It All Falls Down  
> Audiomachine • Magnus 
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uB-e9qzUjE  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/1Uo1GolWrCvy2aRoBhE4cJ?si=NBkM-Qv-SRystO7byV2VMA 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_Sherlock_

Standing in the open cell doorway, Lestrade watched Sherlock pace back and forth in the confines of the small room. “You need a _solicitor_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot him a disparaging glance. “I don’t _need_ anyone. I want John.”

Lestrade scratched his neck ruefully, sighed and left.

Alone at last, Sherlock ceased his frenetic movement in the middle of the floor. Steepling his fingers under his chin, the movement of his hands still constrained by the presence of the handcuffs, he regarded the ceiling, a myriad of thoughts playing out in a series of computations against the grey concrete.

_ His arrest was fast. Something about the victim? No that would have taken more time. Something at the scene? Yes. He hadn’t missed anything. And he hadn't touched anything without a glove (he wasn't an idiot!). Had he missed something? No he hadn’t missed anything. So what was at the scene? _

Then his eyes went wide and his mouth went round.

_Oh._

He took a seat on the hard bench and settled in for the wait.

_John_

Not having the assistance of a police escort to clear the streets ahead of him, John’s trip to The Yard took considerably longer _(the days of cabs being the most efficient mode of transport in London were really coming to an end)_ and so he arrived over an hour later, anxious, annoyed, his lips curled into a grimace.

Of the two of them, John was the one who could always be relied on to ease the tension of an interaction with a pleasantry. But not today. In the face of Sherlock’s detainment, social niceties were going to be a rare commodity.

“Where is he?” John demanded of the Constable on duty at the front desk. Before the young and slightly stunned _(yes, that’s right, ex-army captain, look sharp man)_ officer could respond, Lestrade made an appearance at the door to the side.

“Interview … this way,” he motioned John to follow him through the door and down the dim grey corridor to the room at the end. It was a room John was already familiar with, having accompanied Sherlock on his observations of a subject from the other side of the glass on more than one occasion. But being on this side, it was going to be different. And difficult.

As if to punctuate the unpleasantness of the situation, Donovan fell into step beside them and as Lestrade reached forward to unlock the interview room door, she leaned forward to hiss in John’s ear. “I told you one day we would be standing ‘round a body ...”

“Piss off, Sally,” John growled, not even bothering to temper his dislike for the Sergeant as he followed Lestrade through the door and steeled his resolve with a deep breath.

 _Once more into the breach_.


	25. Tight Leash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 25 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Blood // Water (Acoustic)
> 
> grandson • broken down vol. 1
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4wpx4adDVQI   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3uC8zcoHtdlCCBZAqD62UH?si=x9QTh_cgTweJIOJrVNcjVg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

Usually Sherlock revelled in silence; in his opinion people who had no reason to provide their input did so far more than was necessary, filling the world with meaningless noise. But this wasn't business as usual and with the low buzz of the fluorescent light starting to scratch incessantly at his brain and the Constable in the corner,  _ (in place to make sure that he didn't, what … kill himself? over this? hardly!)  _ providing only a fleeting moment of deductive interest ( _ mother of  _ _ two _ _ , one,  _ _ owner of _ _ owned by two short-haired, middle aged, exceedingly common cats, casual writer of explicit fanfiction _ ), he was bored. 

_ Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored bored. _

But that was all about to change. 

The door opened abruptly, ushering Lestrade, John, and Donovan out of the bright hallway and into the dimmed room. Lestrade looking, as he always did, like he would rather be anywhere else. Donovan, looking like she was right where she wanted to be. And John. 

_ Tension in his gait, stiffness in his shoulder _ .

Catching John’s eye and sight of the Belstaff slung over his arm, Sherlock nodded. John flashed him a small, determined grimace, drew the plastic chair out from the table to drape the Belstaff over the back of it, and took a seat next to Sherlock.

On the other side of the stainless steel table ( _practical,_ _easier to clean blood and bodily fluids off_ ), the representatives of The Yard took their seats, Donovan directly across from John, and Lestrade on the other side of the table from Sherlock. Lestrade nodded at the Constable in the corner. She nodded back and took her leave of the room. Sherlock glanced up at the two way mirror behind them and he wondered momentarily if Mycroft had made it in time to witness the spectacle. 

_ No, no need when he had Lestrade on such a tight leash.  _

A click resonated through the small room, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to the table. To Lestrade with his hands folded on top of a yellow document file. And to Donovan, who had, with the push of a button, and an assumed air of officiality, commenced proceedings.

“This interview is being digitally recorded. Present are Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade (Sherlock raised an eyebrow,  _ Gregory? _ ), Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Constable Jennifer Walsh. We are in Interview Room 2 of the New Scotland Yard. Could you please state your name and date of birth?”

Standard procedure of course, but Sherlock couldn't resist cocking his head to the side and issuing Donovan with a “make me” look until John pressed his knee firmly against his under the table.

_ Fine.  _ Sherlock pouted and then acquiesced. “Sherlock Holmes. January 6, 1976.”

“Thank you very much,” Donovan smiled, all teeth. “Also present is … ?”

John took his cue seamlessly. “Dr. John Hamish Watson, formerly British Army doctor and Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Currently assisting the New Scotland Yard in getting their heads out of their arses.” 

Sherlock snorted, turning his head away from the table to hide his grin. John smiled pleasantly. And Donovan glared at them both.

“Oi,” Lestrade snapped, that'll do“

Donovan continued on. “The date is the 3rd of October, and the time is 10.08 in the morning, and please note for the record that Mr. Holmes has waived his right to legal counsel ...” 

John cut in. “Right, now that is out of the way, do you think that you could remove those?” he motioned to the handcuffs.

Donovan looked to Lestrade, who nodded in agreement, and she proceeded to remove the offending items. None too gently and with no great haste. Under John’s watchful gaze, he proceeded to rub his thumb contemplatively back and forth over the reddened indentations on his wrist. Now it was John’s turn to glare at Donovan. She ignored him and continued.

“Mr. Holmes, you were arrested by D.I. Lestrade at 8.10am this morning on suspicion of murder in relation to a female found deceased yesterday evening at Battersea Power Station. Do you want to tell us what you were doing at that location yesterday evening?

John started. “You were where?”

Sherlock deliberately avoided John’s gaze. “At 6.02pm I was on my way … somewhere else  … when I received a text message.” Sherlock jerked his head towards the phone that Lestrade had taken out of his pocket and placed alongside the document file, Sherlock’s phone. “The content of said message suggested that a crime was either in progress, or had already been committed at the Battersea Power Station. I arrived at the location at 6.47pm. I located the body and called Geoffrey (Sherlock jerked his head in Lestrade’s direction) at 8.52pm.”

“Is there any particular reason you waited so long to call  _ Detective Inspector Lestrade _ … let’s see, nearly three hours after you received the message?” Donovan’s eyes widening in faux interest.

“It took me ... “ Sherlock huffed, “longer than I anticipated to locate the body.”

“If you had information about a crime in progress, you should have called the police immediately,” Donovan needled.

“Absolutely, by all means, let me call you every time someone makes a suggestion,” Sherlock snapped, the limited amount of patience he had, he ever had, starting to be very thoroughly tested.

“Let me get this straight,” John interjected, clearly his patience was running out as well. “You are pinning this on Sherlock over what? A coincidence in timing?”

“It's not just timing John,” Lestrade exhaled. “We have Sherlock's blood on the victim.” 

_ And there it was. _


	26. Not Anderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 26 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Me and Mine  
> The Brothers Bright • Abolition
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5iEjz8ToMA   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/6UtLHCRVVflLgQ0hDZQkpQ?si=x5ItjcjqTZ27GAFDuzaE4g 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

“Sherlock's blood?” John’s eyebrows raised themselves in question.

Sherlock, leaning forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together, shook his head both at John's question and at Donovan's unequivocal response: “yes.”

“On. The. Victim?” John took a deep breath, puffing his chest out for the dual purpose of easing the twinge in his shoulder and increasing his physical presence at the table.

“Yes.” Sally repeated, condescension now sliding into her tone.

John took her on, squarely, challenging. “Prove it”

“Excuse me?” Now it was Donovan's turn to start.

“Obviously you have proof, otherwise we wouldn't be here,” John jerked his head to the the file sitting on the table in front of Lestrade. “Show us the proof.”

Donovan looked to Lestrade as he opened the file and slid two pieces of paper across the table to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he rapidly scanned two blood analysis reports.

“They're both yours,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock dismissed shortly, his gaze continuing to flick back and forth between the two reports.

“So this one is the blood from the scene, on the victim?”  John pointed to the report dated that same day. Lestrade nodded. “Where’s the other one from then?”

Instead of answering, Lestrade looked to Sherlock, and as soon as John saw the shadow of apprehension flicker across Sherlock's face, John knew. The date; Sherlock's last overdose before he got clean. Met John. Stayed clean.

John studied Sherlock’s eyes, encouraging him to meet his gaze.  _ It’s fine. It's all fine. _

_ Sherlock _

Mention of his past  _ activities _ never bothered Sherlock; he cared a whit for what other people thought, or said, for that matter. But John’s opinion? John's opinion mattered. John had in that way, since the moment he met him, been Sherlock’s achilles heel and Sherlock was acutely aware that any faltering in John’s belief in him would cripple him. But in the face of this, John’s unwavering regard, he was grounded, fortified. So when Lestrade’s next words were to assert the identical nature of the reports, Sherlock rebuffed him solidly.

“They’re not.”

“Yes they are,” Donovan was looking at him as if  _ he _ were the idiot.

“Nope,” he popped the “p”.  _ He was going to enjoy this.  _ “They are not. Clearly Anderson found himself in the throes of rapture at the prospect of my arrest, but in his unrestrained delight, he was, as usual, sloppy.”

Lestrade looked sceptical but hopeful. Donovan, on the other hand, looked as if she wanted to squash him like a bug.

“This one,” Sherlock slid the crime scene blood report across the table, “is old.”

“Not it’s not!” Donovan was getting irritated  _ (good) _ . “It was run first thing this morning.”

_ Imbeciles, he was dealing with imbeciles. _

Sherlock slid the report in front of John. He watched John scan the data on the report thoroughly, professionally and a smile tugged slightly at his lips when John's focus zoomed in on the series of results displayed in the bottom left corner.

John lifted his head from the report to announce. “If this had come from Sherlock last night he would have been your second corpse.”

When no subsequent response came forth from the other side of the table, John continued.

“The red blood cells —” John tapped the number on the page resoundingly with his finger, “The count is practically non-existent. This couldn't have been come from a live person.”

Sherlock smiled and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Smug. _ And there it was. _

“In field emergency medicine we use fresh whole-blood units stored for up to twenty-four hours. Sometimes a bit longer,” he allowed, “but after that, there are issues with integrity and in vitro functional properties. After twenty-four hours the red blood cell count starts to plummet and at seventy-two hours, the majority of cells are dead. Useless. Just like these cells.” 

Sherlock shot John a wide grin, which he returned, and then turned back to Lestrade. “I presume the post-mortem interval has been officially established?”

“Yes. Time of death,” Lestrade flicked through the file for confirmation, “was between two and three hours before discovery.”

“So yes, this is my blood as you quite rightly pointed out,” Sherlock looked from Donovan to Lestrade. “But it didn’t come from me at the time.”

Lestrade shook his head guiltily and muttered. “I’ll need someone else to confirm this.”

“Go right ahead,” Sherlock replied magnanimously. “Though I would suggest someone  _ other than  _ Anderson.”

 


	27. Delightful Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 27 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Devil Inside 
> 
> London Grammar • Devil Inside
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFRhfmFhBUA   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5VyFoSYimC6yeBaJqTRwXy?si=eSp-TZlnSMSJomrruLSOMg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

Plastic chair legs scraped aggravatingly along the concrete floor as Lestrade pushed himself back from the table, exiting the room in search of his “second opinion.” Donovan, having announced Lestrade’s departure and paused the recording (and with it the interview), proceeded to flick her way through the pages of the file as she busied herself with anything but them; absolutely refusing to yield until she had irrefutable proof of Sherlock’s innocence. Even then, John suspected, it wouldn't be enough.

_ It would never be enough. _

Sherlock was right, Anderson was a moron, but Donovan … John recognised danger, even the most latent, when he saw it. And Donovan was dangerous, holding a certain sway over Lestrade and the ear of many influential people in the Yard. Professional, she was far too principled to “manufacture” anything, but they were — had been from the very beginning — compromised. By John himself. His unlicensed firearm. He suspected she knew that he possessed it — she wasn’t an idiot — but to date it remained unremarked upon. Now he wondered, in light of all this, how long it was going to stay that way. 

While it felt like a millimeter of breathing room had managed to worm its way back into his chest cavity, John was still tense, strung tight. It did happen, had happened before — Sherlock being mistaken for the murderer ( _ no doubt facilitated by the man’s unrestrained expression of delight at a truly intriguing murder scene). _ But  _ this _ , he (they) had never ended up in this position before — arrested, detained; a serious repercussion.

_ No longer a game. _

The level of Donovan's aggrieved silence on the other side of the table was being matched breath for breath by the volume of Sherlock’s smugness beside him. Leaning far back in his chair, impossibly long legs stretched out underneath the small table, Sherlock’s self-satisfaction oozed from every pore. And it seemed like he would happily wait there forever, in that too-small plastic chair, in that entirely unpleasant room, to be hand-delivered the proof that the “idiots” from the Yard were wrong yet again. Vindication not only suited Sherlock Holmes, he luxuriated in it.

John, on the other hand, just wanted to get the fuck out of the place as soon as possible and have a serious word, or two  _ (or more!), _ with Sherlock.  _ Jesus fucking Christ.  _ First the git left him at the airport to go investigate a murder and didn't bother to tell him. Then he went about and got himself arrested. The gangly bastard didn’t need a partner, he needed a babysitter.  _ And a spanking!  _ John was saved (prevented) from imaging the practicalities of the last scenario by Lestrade's timely return, human inhabitant of sought-and-found “second” opinion in tow.

“Interview with Mr. Holmes resumed at 10.20pm,” Donovan announced. “DI Lestrade has re-entered the room along with AFS Wilhelmina Cooper.” 

Retrieving the reports from the table and handing them to the lab-coated Assistant Forensic Scientist who was in the process of using the back of her hand to hastily brush some crumbs from the corner of her mouth, Lestrade prompted: “What can you tell me about these two reports?”

_ Sherlock _

Pulling the reading glasses off the top of her head and settling them on her nose  _ (myopia - statistically more prevalent in the scholared population, noses in books - not scanning the horizon for danger), _ ASF Cooper’s gaze shuffled between the two reports. “You mean aside from the … ah … frankly quite impressive amount of benzoylmethyl-ecgonine in this one?” She looked over the top of the paper at Sherlock appraisingly.  “This yours? Nice work ...”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed on her in interest  _ (toxicologist, “recreational” chemist, could be useful). _ However he didn’t have to look at the others, to know that Lestrade, Donovan and John had just all frowned in unison.

“Yes, okay, thank you,” Lestrade, in an attempt to refocus, cut in.”We are not interested in the cocaine, what we - _ I _ \-  actually need to know, is if there a  _ difference  _ between the two reports?

ASF Cooper looked to Lestrade appraisingly, then back down to resume her comparison.“Uh? Same person? But this one,” she held out the crime scene analysis, “this one isn't right. RBC count is way too low … when was this sampled?” Her eyes scanned the top of the page for confirmation.  “Yesterday? Couldn't possibly be fresh. Has to have been stored for quite a while.”

“Thank you very much, that's all we need,” Lestrade reached for the reports.

She handed them over and headed for the door, relieved to be able to return to the lunchroom before her break was over. She did however shoot Sherlock one last curious look before she left.

Beside him, John blew a long breath out through his nose, his shoulders starting to inch their way down from the position they had been in for most of the morning, hunched around his neck.

“I did tell you,” Sherlock pointed out to Donovan who, glaring, was still not giving up the fight. “Obviously, someone took a sample of my blood and placed it on the victim.”

“And why would  _ anyone  _ want to do that?” Donovan challenged.

“I would imagine,” Sherlock moved in one fluid motion, to stand up and extract his Belstaff from the back of John's chair, “so that we could all end up here, having this delightful chat.” 

Sherlock looked down at John,  _ time to go.  _ John in turn, raised his eyebrows in question at Lestrade who was looking more than a tad guilty.

“OK, he sighed, “you’re free to go.”

“Sir!” Donovan exclaimed.

“I said,” Lestrade sighed more forcibly this time, “... they are free to go.”

“I'll be taking my phone back,” Sherlock declared.

Lestrade responded by sliding Sherlock’s mobile across the table to him whereby he plucked it off and promptly dropped in his trouser pocket. Never one to let the opportunity to make a dramatic exit pass him by, Sherlock twirled the Belstaff to settle on his shoulders before wrenching the interview room door open and sweeping out of the room. Down the corridor, towards the exit, John followed a pace behind him.

“Sherlock,” John's demanded, a hand on his shoulder slowing him to a stop. “What the bloody hell is going on here?”

Turning on the spot to face him, Sherlock posed the question. “A sample of my blood at least a week old. John, how many samples were taken in Morocco?”

“Two. Why? Do you think that's where …?”

“What I  _ think  _ is that it is time we paid my brother that visit.”


	28. About Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 28 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Trail of Evidence (Instrumental)
> 
> Tommee Profitt • Cinematic Songs Vol. 4
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWlfTzphPdg&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUjgwIhno1_tVyqJku86KGG2&index=29&t=0s 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/49mHO8MsULIqvI4NhKZeYa?si=-ykWn1PES3KCRTr-La1U_A 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

Sherlock’s usual practice of brushing off the concierge at the entrance to the Diogenes Club had been met with, quite frankly, an impressive display of resistance. So much so that the man had  _ insisted  _ on escorting them to the Stranger’s Room, where Mycroft was to be found, taking elevenses ( _ well it was closer to noon, but Mycroft looked like he had been there a while). _ He sat ensconced in a dark brown leather Chesterfield, Bourbon biscuit in one hand, Royal Doulton “Old Colony” tea cup in the other. As they drew near, the concierge offered Mycroft a look of profound apology for “their” intrusion, to which Mycroft nodded his “gracious” acceptance and the concierge took his leave.

“I was expecting you yesterday, brother mine.” A raised eyebrow was Mycroft’s only physical acknowledgement of their presence as he contemplated the chocolate buttercream sandwiched by two chocolate biscuits currently resting between his fingers.

“Yes, as it was, I was ... otherwise engaged,” Sherlock replied, fixing the elderly balding occupant of the chair closest to them with a look so severe, the ruddy faced man wisely sought an alternate seating arrangement mere seconds before Sherlock hauled his rapidly vacated chair unceremoniously across the antique carpet, to take up a position across from his brother. 

John quietly  _ (and much more politely) _ chose to procure himself a previously vacated seat from a little further afield.

“So I hear,” Mycroft looked up, finally deigning to grace the younger, “minor” Holmes with his attention. “How  _ are _ the amenities in Her Majesty's facilities these days?”

“Barely adequate, as with everything else that bears your mark of responsibility,” Sherlock shot back.

John took a calming breath.

Mycroft smiled, thin lipped, “Sherlock, I simply do not have the time to involve myself in matters of  _ domestic _ policing.”

“Considering how close an eye you keep on Lestrade,” Sherlock countered, “I would imagine that the visitor log at the Yard would challenge that assertion.”

“My visits are never recorded,” Mycroft bit out.

Sherlock grinned in self-satisfaction. Mycroft scowled. John sighed loudly. This entire day, and now  _ both  _ Holmes’ brothers, were getting on his very last nerve. For two highly intelligent, supposedly refined, public-schooled individuals, they behaved abominably in each other’s company. 

_ Time to intervene in this latest, childish battle of wits.  _

“Mycroft, when Sherlock’s blood was tested after he was drugged by Guerin ... who ran the samples?”

Mycroft reluctantly tore his gaze away from his brother, a wrinkle forming at the bridge of his nose as he titled his chin up to consider John and the question posed. “My man in Marrakesh. Why?”

_ Nice to have a “man” everywhere one needed one _ , John thought wryly before countering Mycroft’s question with another. “How many samples did he run?”

John was fairly certain that the look Mycroft was giving him was not dissimilar to the look Mycroft would give to a splinter he just found under his fingernail (if a splinter would dare lodge itself there). All the same, Mycroft retrieved his phone from the side table and proceeded to send a text. A silent response flashed back across the screen mere seconds later. Mycroft regarded the message and set his phone aside again.

“One. Tests were run on the one sample provided.”

“And yet,  _ two  _ were taken from me,” Sherlock cut in, “provided to your Agent, Sebastian Moran, and then one was used to attempt to implicate me at a crime scene. I think, brother dear, that it's about time you told us about Moran ... and how one Jim Moriarty factors into the equation.”

 


	29. Times Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 29 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Prophet Story
> 
> Cobi • Prophet Story
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWcULye1eIw&index=19&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUjgwIhno1_tVyqJku86KGG2  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5NN2OOlvy4IJB6YJyWXIgU?si=AJiC8DwTS7uPDFxVJoD81A 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_Sherlock_

Leaning back in the Chesterfield, his fingers steepled together, Mycroft posed his next question to Sherlock. “You've met Moriarty, how did he strike you?”

“Moderately intelligent, rich and bored,” Sherlock offered dismissively. He was not about to provide his brother with any insight into his unusually visceral reaction to the man nor profess to any admiration of a man who had annoyed him so thoroughly upon meeting.

“Try _highly_ intelligent, _genius even_ , _excessively_ rich and _terribly_ bored,” Mycroft corrected.

“Not born to it though,” Sherlock countered, recalling the ornate fox tie-pin affixed to the man’s hunting cravat. _He may be a man with money, but he wore it as if it were a Westwood suit he acquired rather than the skin he had always inhabited._

“No. Average middle class family. Mother worked in the local post office, father was ... a gardener at one of the nearby estates I think. Nothing remarkable about either of them … except that at age six, Moriarty figured out that his parents had absolutely nothing to offer him intellectually or monetarily ...”

_Fire. He watched them burn …_

“ … he found a way to replace them with people who could. An aunt and uncle in Dublin. Old money; forebears founded the Irish Kennel Club or some such ghastly endeavour. Both relatively intelligent, but their true value was in the access they could provide to the best educational institutions and with it persons of influence. Moriarty kept them around until they outlived their usefulness; they died in a car accident the month before he left for university”.

“So psychopath?”

“Antisocial personality disorder to be sure. But extremely high functioning. Destined for a life as a surgeon … or a serial killer. Despite that, he wasn't even on our radar until he got to sixth-form at Eton. Orchestrated an extremely successful and lucrative college wide exam cheating scheme. Only flaw proved to be a classmate with a conscience. Somehow managed to convince said classmate to take the fall for the whole thing. Classmate didn't last long after that. He killed himself before the formal expulsion hearing.”

John stared at Mycroft. “You have _radar_ for identifying _potential criminals?”_

“Not just criminals, but criminal masterminds; _consulting criminals_.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock eyebrows shot up ( _the man hadn’t actually ...)_

“ _Consulting criminal_ , that’s how Moriarty refers to himself. Rather catchy don’t you think?” There was a sly irony to Mycroft’s tone.

Sherlock certainly did not think. Sherlock did not think at all! And he was only saved from a very undignified petulant outburst at the misappropriation of _his_ title by John’s next question.

“So he … ?“

“Provides his services to the highest bidder, yes. Manipulates governments in multinational trade. Brokers arms deals with whichever of the sides takes his fancy - considers himself an equal opportunist. Occasionally he orchestrates the death of a few people to keep himself … amused. The money is important to him, affords him a certain lifestyle, but making people twist and turn … and beg - that is his _forte.”_

“He wants to see the world burn,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, his fingers now steepled under his chin.

“Not quite,” and for the first time there was a hesitation to Mycroft’s next words, “… he is the fire.”

“That's a bit melodramatic Mycroft, even for you,” Sherlock regarded him curiously for a moment before switching tack. “Moran. What sort of background checks do you do on your prospective agents before you recruit them? _Even John_ was able to put it together within a couple of hours.”

Beside him, John huffed indignantly _(what? he was simply stating the facts)_ and across from him Mycroft sniffed in offense _._ “ _We_ do _extensive_ background checks. That's why we recruited him.”

“You _knew_ of their connection?” John was incredulous.

“We _encouraged_ it. A few rugby matches here, a strategically engineered pub night there,” Mycroft’s lip curled in distaste at the very idea of such a thing. “You would not believe how spectacularly easy it is to orchestrate a relationship.”

“To what end?” Sherlock mused. “You … need him for something ...” He studied Mycroft’s face carefully. “No,” he deduced, you _created_ him for something.”

“And what exactly are we in all this, bait?” John demanded.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed on John who stared, unflinching, back at him.

“John appears to have,” Sherlock offered, his hands gesturing to the ether, “attracted his attention.”

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft huffed, appraising John. “Why would anyone?”

“Oi, I'm right here remember!”

“As John did mine,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes,” Mycroft allowed. “That was ... unexpected.”

“It shouldn't have been. . Sentiment, dear brother; something even you can't control. Or understand.”

“You never could either,” Mycroft countered, considering his brother with some curiosity.

“Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.”

Mycroft lifted his chin in consideration of the Latin adage as Sherlock turned his head towards John, his expression softening.  

“Times _are_ changed,” Mycroft agreed.

"Yes, and we also are changed with them. Cease and desist this game, Mycroft." Sherlock got to his feet, collecting John with a glance and not even looking back at his brother when he exited the room.

 


	30. Missed You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 30 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Without You
> 
> Ursine Vulpine & Annaca • Without You
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uk4gglVO9GY&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUjgwIhno1_tVyqJku86KGG2&index=38&t=0s  
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2SvIwED5a6xYm5S9s8wvsC?si=Mp8DzmLURQuObAz09JBSww 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

Pausing on the way out to collect their coats, John turned to Sherlock as he shouldered into his, his voice low and careful. “Morocco wasn’t a coincidence was it?”

“No.”

“So, let me get this straight,” John’s displeasure which had built during their conversation with Mycroft was now beginning to peak. “Your brother sent us to Morocco to draw Moriarty out because he wants him for something?”

“In a fashion,” Sherlock concurred.

“And do we know what that something is?”

“No, and it is unlikely that Mycroft will ever part with that information.”

“Fuck it,” John fumed. He was now fuming. “I am going straight back in there and I am going to kill the bastard, I don’t care if he is your brother.”

“Don't waste your energy,” Sherlock advised. “I rarely find him worth the effort.”

John mused for a moment, trying to put the rest of the pieces in some semblance of order in his mind. He might not be a genius like Sherlock, but he could do his own deducing. “So, if Moran swiped the second sample of your blood. And then it turned up at the Battersea crime scene. That would suggest either that he or Moriarity or both of them were involved in the suicide?”

“Obviously. And, I am beginning to suspect the leech death as well.”

John’s nose wrinkled. “Because they are both as weird as fuck?”

“Because they both died so very willingly. Our leech victim stepped all of his own accord into a tank full of leeches. And the one at Battersea, she freely consumed a cardiac glycoside. Both would have needed assistance to do so, but both would have had to  _ want  _ to do it.”

“It doesn't really make sense,” John shook his head.

“No, not yet,” Sherlock hummed his agreement, tying his scarf around his neck before stepping outside.

The sky which had been threatening to unleash rain all day had made good on its threat, and it was cold beyond the comfortably heated rooms of the Diogenes Club. Bone-chilling cold. So much colder than it should be for early autumn.

John shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, tucking his chin to his chest and following Sherlock as he headed to the kerb to hail a taxi. “Not yet? You think there’s more?”

“There’s always more, John.”

Usually a taxi appeared as soon as Sherlock stuck his hand out, but today there seemed to be dearth of cabs on the street, and John kept shuffling back and forth, moving to keep warm as they waited. His mind went back to the end of the conversation with Mycroft.

“What was the rest of that about?”

“The rest of what?” Sherlock asked distractedly, scouring the street for the non-existent ride.

“That last bit with your brother?”

Sherlock snorted. “That, was my dear brother finally beginning to appreciate the limits of his influence and understanding.”

“So you think Moriarty is interested in me?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Again, really?”  _ What was he all of a sudden, chopped liver? _

“No, don’t take it that way,” Sherlock assured. “If Moriarty is as Mycroft portrays him to be, then he is incapable of forming attachments or possessing what would be considered “normal” human desires, impulses. His interest in you  _ has  _ to be purely clinical.”

“I think I would rather take it the other way, when you put it like that.” John huffed. “Then what, clinically, does he want with me?”

“I don’t know. A soldier. A surgeon. A way to annoy me? He might even consider you a useful recruit?” Sherlock offered, offhandedly.

John grimaced and shook his head at the unpleasant image that thought conjured. “Right,” he stated. “I’m cold and I’m hungry. We are going straight home and then you and I need to have a serious chat about yesterday.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Sherlock regarded him warily and was about to open his mouth and protest  _ (his innocence?) _ when his phone pinged.

_ Sherlock _

Another text message:

 

_ Roses are red _

_ Except when they're black _

_ I missed you today _

_ Won't you come back? _

 

And then immediately following, an image file; a vinyl album cover.

John shot him a cautious look and Sherlock turned to show him the screen. “ _ I missed you today _ ” stood out like a beacon.

“Jesus Sherlock, this is not a game!”

“Actually John, that’s exactly what this is.”

“So?” he turned the phone to face John again, this time with the image file enlarged.

“Um, Legendary Hearts, Lou Reed?” John offered.

Sherlock just stared at him, bewildered. “Am I meant to know who or what that is?”

“No, probably not,” John shot him a grin. “Lou Reed was the lead singer, guitarist for an American rock group in the 60’s and 70’s called the Velvet Underground. Not particularly successful at the time but it has quite a cult following now.”

Sherlock regarded John with a look of even deeper bafflement. _ Was the man even speaking English? _

“So what are we looking for?” John prompted, unlocking the screen of his own phone.

“Song titles. Something in the lyrics.”

John started rattling off the list of tracks on the album. “The title track, Legendary Hearts?”

Sherlock huffed, which John correctly interpreted as a no and moved on.

John continued down the list and Sherlock huffed at each one  _ (ridiculous, ludicrous, irrelevant ... _ ) until …

“Betrayed?”

Sherlock stopped him, considered for a moment, discarded it and then motioned for John to continue.

“Next one - Bottoming Out.” John smirked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't quite hide his answering grin.

One more.

Then.

“Rooftop Garden?”

_ The flower was a surprise. _

“That one. Lyrics John,” Sherlock directed.

“Colleague or slave?”

Sherlock dismissed the jab, and with a flick of his hand gestured John to read aloud:

 

_ “Sitting in our rooftop garden, looking down below _

_ Sitting in our rooftop garden, waiting for the sun _

_ Isn't it lovely watching a plane go by? _

_ What a lovely couple are you and I _

_ Sitting in our rooftop garden; a few drops of rain _

_ The lights in the city blinking on just the same _

_ No sugar in my coffee; how's your tea? _

_ In our rooftop garden above the city _

_ Let's not see any letters _

_ Let's not answer the phone _

_ Let's just pretend that there's no one at home _

_ In our rooftop garden _

_ In our rooftop garden _

_ In rooftop garden _

_ Up on the roof” _

 

_ Roof. Garden.  _ “Where are there rooftop gardens in London John?”

“Umm,” John consulted his phone. “God, there are loads. … Real gardens - with plants? Or just rooftop bars?”

“Real gardens,” Sherlock declared, spinning on the spot to face the street again and rapidly scanning for a taxi.  _ What the hell was going on in this city? Was he losing his touch? _

“OK, there’s rooftop gardens at the Southbank Centre … Crossrail Place, Kensington Hotel, Sky Garden …”

Sherlock, in the midst of  _ (finally) _ hailing a cab that had just appeared around the corner, called back over his shoulder. “Search via images. The one that has the most self-indulgently dramatic appeal.”

“That’s easy. Sky Garden,” John declared just as the taxi pulled up to the curb.


	31. Always Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 31  by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3  
>    
> I Found
> 
> Amber Run • 5AM (Deluxe)
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj6V_a1-EUA 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5zT5cMnMKoyruPj13TQXGx?si=0IzdtbzQSBe4sIi-nL1ukQ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ Sherlock _

_ Thirteen minutes. _

20 Fenchurch Street and the landscaped terraces of Sky Garden set high in the clinical concrete and steel-ringed heart of London’s financial district, were roughly 20 minutes away from the Diogenes Club by taxi. Which was, Sherlock estimated, about 19 minutes too long if he was to avoid having the “serious chat” with John.

As it turned out, it was actually 19 minutes and 24 seconds too long.

“You know, you would have found the body a whole lot quicker if I’d been with you last night,” John sniffed thirty-six seconds into the journey as he rubbed his palms up and down his thighs in an attempt to create some warmth in his blue-tinged fingers.

“I thought we were having this chat back at the flat?” Sherlock eyes flicked warily to John and then back through the Perspex partition of the cab to the rain slicked streets laid out in front of them.

“Maybe I want to have it now, Sherlock,” the ‘now’ intonated no differently to any other word in the sentence, but its emphasis very much understood ...

… and deliberately ignored as Sherlock attempted to engineer his way out of having the discussion at that present moment, and preferably, at any moment in the foreseeable future. “ _ The Work _ John. We are on a  _ case _ .”

“You told me in Morocco that the work wasn’t more important. It wasn't more important than us. That’s changed has it?” John’s voice was low and tight.

Sherlock turned his head in John’s direction and John's deep, dark eyes stared back at him. They were, right now, a dark angry blue. But beneath lay unblinking hurt.

_ Hurt. John was hurt. _

Sherlock hadn't meant to hurt John; he never meant to hurt John. But hurt John he did, always, all the same. Last night he had just been trying to solve the riddle of Moran and Moriarty. And now, he was just trying to protect John from the answer to another puzzle. But it appeared “just tying” wasn’t going to cut it.

Sherlock  _ had  _ meant what he said. John would indeed make a fine recruit for Moriarty. A soldier, a doctor, sure and strong; John Watson, formerly a British Army doctor and Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was a man anyone would want, would be privileged to have by their side. Unequivocally. But … that wasn’t quite the all of it.

_ As he did mine: _ Sherlock's words to his brother, about John attracting Moriarty’s attention, just as John had done Sherlock’s.

_ It was personal. _

Sherlock had no way of proving it yet, save a crawling suspicion that was worming its way through his synaptic gaps and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Somehow Moriarty had discovered John’s worth, his true worth. His worth to Sherlock. But to what end? To use him? To play him? Something ...

_ There was always something. _

The blood at the mouth of the last victim, he chastised himself. He had called Anderson sloppy, but he himself had let his assumptions that the victim had injured herself, bitten her tongue, cheek, lip as the tremors of her heart giving out overtook her, get him into trouble.

_ Moriarty was clever. _

Clever. He needed to be cleverer. He couldn't afford to miss anything. And splitting up; leaving John at the airport, going it alone last night. Was it his own decisions that were leading them down this path, or was Moriarty leading this dance? Whatever it was, he was currently one step behind and he needed to catch up. 

Usually a retreat to his mind palace stilled the world, whited out the noise, but now his second guessing was beginning to claw away at that peace. Sherlock chanced another quick look at John. This time John was the one staring straight ahead in the cab, the anger in his eyes still there but now clouded by … disappointment.  

_ In him. _

Sherlock was acutely aware of his inadequacies, his limitations, his failings in the field of social relations: he was, through wilful ignorance or desire, always taking advantage, taking for granted, or just taking. And he was never particularly inclined to admit to his flaws, his failings. After all, all he had been doing was trying to do the right thing! Solve the puzzle! 

… But, he did concede, there  _ had _ been time to call John after he received the text pointing him in the direction of Battersea. He. Just. Didn't. That was … an error. Not including John in a case for the first time in their partnership. It was wrong, he had been … wrong. 

As he began to draw himself out of his thoughts and back into the world that comprised himself, John and the taxi, he suspected that it might have been a while since John had posed his question. A quick glance out the window at the soulless workplaces of the faceless individuals who controlled the finances of England and to a large, extent the world, and a subsequent glance at John’s face, now set in an unhappy scowl, confirmed his suspicions.

And in a move that quite frankly surprised himself, he offered up the words he seldom uttered, but right in this moment, absolutely felt.

“I’m sorry.”


	32. Then Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 32  by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Beautiful Crime
> 
> Tamer • Beautiful Crime
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Br_CWVbUyT4 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/4NZKQIAbpUPd0jn0CzvRpS?si=3I5eRHL9SNGGkCxkAhCfQQ 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ John _

Barely had John a chance to register Sherlock’s apology, when the taxi pulled into Philpot Lane alongside 20 Fenchurch Street. Rising from its base and spreading out into the sky above them, the monolith had earned itself the nickname of the “Walkie Talkie.” To John though, it looked more like one of those first mobile phone models - the ones that had been as large as a field satellite phone and similarly, required a backpack to carry around.

_ Sherlock’s apology. _

Sherlock’s apology had been welcome, absolutely … but at the same time, a little startling. And as much as John reminded himself that he should just be grateful to have received it, he couldn’t help wondering why Sherlock had done it. To apologise was so unlike the man. Not that Sherlock hadn't done it before — apologised, when he had been a right prat and had worked John into a “not one more word” furor. But this apology had been proffered relatively quickly. Usually it took at least a day for Sherlock to acknowledge he had been “a bit not good.” John shook his head - it felt like there was something he was missing. 

The taxi, meanwhile, had pulled in behind a dark BMW; a large, imposing unmarked police vehicle, next to which, stood a similarly large, equally imposing and heavily armed Constable. This was of course City of London jurisdiction. The square mile within which the “Walkie Talkie” was located was overseen by a highly trained, specialised police force and state of the art surveillance put in place in response to the IRA activities in the 1980’s, and reinforced by the 7/7 London attacks. All cars entering the area were subject to an automatic number plate reading system and the hub of European and International banking, was also subject to unpredictable, highly visible police deployments in a deterrent show of force.

John paid their fare and followed Sherlock out of the taxi. On the pavement they simultaneously pulled up the collars of their jackets in an effort to prevent the rain from slithering unpleasantly down their necks as they observed the Constable perform a thorough check of the vehicle parked in front of his.

_ Were they too late? _

There was no urgency to the Constable's actions, however and illegally parked vehicles were always regarded with a great deal of suspicion and subject to rapid inspection within the “ring of steel.” This, John concluded, was just one of those instances.

They headed to the queue for the lifts to the thirty-fifth floor within which the Sky Garden resided, and encountered a horde of rain-drenched but still seemingly high-spirited tourists. John braced himself for what he knew would come next as Sherlock, one eyebrow arched, regarded the lineup.

In response to the impediment to their progress, the world's only consulting detective proceeded to draw himself to his imposingly full six foot of height and repeatedly declare “police business, move aside” in an effort to part the sea of people in their way. John grimaced apologetically and cast a furtive glance to the officer on the street below, but thankfully, Sherlock hadn’t chosen to make use his booming baritone for this particular endeavour, and the officer was still looking down, typing something into his electronic device.

For the most part people moved aside without too much grumbling. Tourists were always much more compliant than the everyday London resident. High on their fill of historic monuments and packed to the leisurely gills with excessively overpriced “traditional” afternoon tea, tourists, not regularly subject to the everyday hassle of traversing Victoria station at rush hour, even seemed to consider London crowds entertaining. There were, however, one or two individuals who were not so entertained and who chose to express their objections vocally.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock cast back over his shoulder to the tourists as he pushed on through, John following in his wake. “The view will still be the same in five minutes time for you to take your insipidly ordinary photos, apply the standard “look at my Instagram life” filter, and hashtag it in an attempt to ensure that you achieve the required number of likes for validation for your otherwise quite dull lives.”

John sighed loudly.

_ Sherlock _

“Of course I don’t have a ticket.” Sherlock cut the receptionist off before the useless woman had a chance to utter a single word.  Fishing the warrant card badge he had swiped from Lestrade a few months ago out of the inside pocket of this Belstaff, he flashed it at her and accompanied it with his widest smile. He was aware John detested what he referred to as Sherlock’s “crime scene” smile;  _ “fake and disturbing.” _ But accompanied by the confidence of whatever role he was assuming at the time, it never failed to open doors, part crime scene tape or unlock the “no you cannot possibly take a look at” locked files. 

This time however, a look of puzzlement crept across his target's face. 

“Metropolitan Police?” the receptionist queried. “But we're not in that jurisdiction.”

_ Hmm, not as useless as he had assumed. _

"Joint exercise," Sherlock improvised. "Vehicle check, out the front with the City Constable."    


Now the receptionist nodded and waved them ahead.   


During their short journey around the back of the desk to the lifts, Sherlock surveyed the means of access and egress. Only one way up and one way down via the two 15 passenger lifts, unless one was willing to risk a longer journey and triggering the alarm via use of the emergency stairs.

Small as they were, the lifts were remarkably efficient and no sooner had they wedged themselves in with the annoyingly eager, nonsensically chattering occupants, than the doors opened at the top with a ping and practically vomited them out into the grey tiled lobby floor. Broken by strips of white tile, the front of the floor opened up, through an airlock, onto an open air observation deck spanning one entire side of the building.

Even in the dismal weather, the view afforded was spectacular. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides provided a 360 degree view of the city. From London Bridge on the left, down the Thames to the South Bank, the city was laid out in all its contrasting glory; from the randomly scattered Tudor survivals of the Great Fire of 1666 to the skyscraping modern day offerings. And the view inside was equally as spectacular. The lower floor opened up to a series of richly planted terraces dominated by drought resistant Mediterranean and South African species. Agapanthus, Kniphofia and Strelitzia reginae interspersed with lavender and rosemary, clearly chosen to work in harmony with the particular quality of light found under the roof canopy. If it were not for the  _ people _ , Sherlock mused, it might be quite a nice place.

_ But people there were. Lots of mind-numbingly ordinary people. Irritating just by their mere act of being. _

The floor was full of people, lounging on couches at the front, leaning back against the glass windows and wandering in and out of the leafy alcoves; lots of people but noone of interest. 

Above, four discreetly positioned cameras were also keeping an eye on proceedings. With this many people and this many cameras, a body would hardly go unnoticed, so clearly it hadn't happened yet. 

Sherlock scanned the faces a second time, adding nuances to his initial intake of data.

_ Student, tour operator, day-trippers, backpackers. Couple on first date, couple on second date, couple on, oh yes, third and never-to-be-repeated, final date. Tourist, tourist, tourist, tourist, person not wanting to look like a tourist but tourist nonetheless. Tourist, tourist, argh! _

He felt a subtle nudge at his side. “What are we looking for, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cast his mind back to the lyrics, and one of the lines floated back: “w _ hat a lovely couple are you and I.” _

_ A couple. _

“Two people, just two, close together, feigning affection perhaps.”

They scanned the crowd. A few couples but nothing of interest.

“There's the back,” John offered.

Yes, there was the back, Sherlock conceded reluctantly. But the elevated restaurant on upper level would largely obscure their view of the front once they were there.

“Fine,” he agreed. It had to be done. “You take the left stairs, I’ll take the right. Meet in the middle but make it quick.”

Sherlock sprinted up the four flights of stairs, his oxfords slapping noisily on the tiles in his haste. Past the small leafy alcoves on his left and the view out over Whitechapel on his right, there was … nothing … no, no one of interest.

His stride being considerably longer than John’s he reached the upper level much faster, and they met up again just as John had reached the top of the stairs on the left hand side.

“Anything?”

“Nothing,” John shook his head. “Your cardiac glycoside from last night, though,” John gestured to the multitude of potted Heleborum adorning the tabletops and counters. “This them?”

Sherlock nodded distractedly.

_ OK, not here. Too empty. _

For a split second he considered that he might have made a mistake with the location. No, it  _ was  _ here, this  _ had to be  _ the right place. Here was where it was meant to happen. 

And then, just as both he and John turned at the same time to descend back down the stairs, a flash of red, white and blue on the right hand side of the observation deck below caught his eye.

_ A cap - a cheap tourist trapping - with a garishly loud Union Jack emblazoned across the front. _

And then the next frames of Sherlock’s vision slowed down to a tenth of their usual feed.

_ A hand reaching out from the sleeve of a denim jacket. _

_ Assisting a well dressed woman. _

_ Up onto the ledge. _

_ A moment hanging. _

_ A scream (but not hers). _

_ Then gone. _


	33. Beautiful Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 33  by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Who Are You
> 
> Svrcina • Svrcina
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWk4zqmQwVE 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/56peP1S0zoE8qiU9UsHAKO?si=JBDzirKiQHGP_P8lyF51cA 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ John _

“The hat, John, the hat” Sherlock shouted as he took off at a sprint down the stairs. John reacted instantly and was right on the tails of Sherlock's Belstaff as a number of other voices joined the high pitched screaming that had started to resonate throughout the entire floor.

“Union Jack. Heading towards the lifts,” Sherlock directed over his shoulder.

Sherlock might have had a longer gait, but John's compact form made for far easier maneuvering in and around the tourists who now stood unmoving, stunned. Through the garden beds and off the side of the last terrace John lept the metre to the lift lobby below just as the doors to the first lift closed leaving him in a gush of air and a fleeting glimpse of a hat, brim turned to the floor. Though not turned down enough to completely conceal the sly grin of Jim Moriarty.

_ Shit. Fuck. Shit. Now they had to wait for the next one. _

Sherlock was only one step behind him, sliding to an unceremonious stop. 

“Oh for God's sake,” he growled in frustration. “Come on, come on!”

As soon as the second lift opened, Sherlock reached in and grabbed the lapels of the jackets of the two closest passengers and yanked them forward and out.

“Out, out, get out!”

The remaining passengers scattered in spectacular fashion. The last, a middle-aged, somewhat roundish man, practically hugged the walls as he skirted, eyes wide, around the imposing figure of Sherlock now standing right in the middle of the lift. John stepped in and started stabbing the down button repeatedly with his index finger. At the same time an intrepid, but quite seriously misguided individual on the other side of the door, stepped closer, seemingly intent on stalling their departure by inserting a part or parts of his body between the closing doors.

_ Oh no you bloody well will not! _

“Don't you DARE,” John barked, Captain Watson at the helm, stalling the man’s hand in midair.

Unimpeded, the lift doors closed smoothly and they descended. John took a deep, steadying breath and beside him, Sherlock twitched impatiently. As soon as the lift doors opened at the bottom they were thrust out into a sea of hysterics, set to the soundtrack of the wail of approaching sirens and battered by the rain and wind that had picked up some more.

The body had fallen onto the Philpot street side of the building, and the lineup of tourists for the lifts were now either straining across the railing to catch a glimpse of the macabre scene, milling about in the same stunned silence as their comrades on the thirty-fifth floor or quite simply just wailing whilst building security flustered about uselessly. At any rate, the lobby and surrounds were a chaos of people while the street below, held back by the officer who had previously been inspecting cars, was clear.

_ Sherlock _

_ Everywhere, people. _

It was practically impossible to see anything through the throng of people milling about and the rain.

_ Too much data. _

Sherlock searched wildly for a couple of seconds until he spotted it, a couple of meters away. The back of a head: the hat. He raced forward and gripping both shoulders of the wearer, spun them around. A look of stunned silence on the face of a teenager greeted him as Sherlock grasped the kid’s shoulders tightly.

“Argh, not you,” Sherlock cast him aside and the kid stumbled backwards.

Scanning the crowd again he saw another hat … and then another and yet another. Hats, multiplying, seemingly out of nowhere.

_ Wrong, this was all wrong. _

John came up on his side, panting, and pointed to a box of hats on on the ground by the balustrade with a handwritten sign “Free,” being taken up by anyone who noticed them. Sherlock spun again and the adrenaline began to ebb out of him, replaced by overwhelming frustration.

_ Missed. Still a step behind. _

“Uh, Sherlock,” John’s voice brought him out of his mental self-flagellation. “You want to hazard a guess at exactly where the body landed?”

Where the body had landed, as it turned out, was the roof of the “parking” Constable’s car who, whilst ever professionally guarding the scene, looked exceedingly put out at the quite unwelcome intrusion into his scheduled activities.

Perhaps this wasn't quite the right time to demand an examination of the body, but, after all, Sherlock had never been one for adhering to social conventions.

Approaching the scene, Sherlock ignored the cautioning hum from John at his side as he flashed Lestrade's badge at the Constable. This time however, he definitely had pushed his luck, because all he received in response was a barked command.

“Stay right there. I don’t care who you are or where you are from. This is City of London jurisdiction.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but clearly you have no idea what you are doing. This isn't a terrorist activity or one of your usual money laundering issues. The victim as you can see, is no longer a threat to anyone and the longer you delay the longer it is going to take me to solve it.”

Perhaps it was the “no idea” comment; Sherlock hadn't been insulting the man, just stating a fact, but the end result was the same. Sherlock, in the eyes of the Constable, had just had just upgraded himself from a nuisance to threat. And in response to the “threat”, the officer’s eyes narrowed as he rocked on the balls of his feet, steadying his stance and gripping the butt of the gun at his side. John's hand appeared on Sherlocks shoulder, ever the steadying presence. 

Just then, two more City Police vehicles arrived at the scene. Normally Sherlock would continue to try and bluster his way through, but the heavily armed officer was clearly impervious to reason. Sherlock stepped back and took out his phone to summon Lestrade, who as it turned out, had him on speakerphone, and, Sherlock surmised, was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on his desk.

“Yeah Sherlock, what is it now?”

During Sherlock's short, rapid explanation of the current situation he heard Lestrade's feet clunk to the floor and his office door open, as he, presumably, waved Donovan in on the conversation.

_ Delightful. _

“The Met doesn't have jurisdiction, Sherlock,” Lestrade explained patiently. “You know that. It’s going to be the City's crime scene.”

“Unless of course there is evidence linking the two deaths…” Sherlock corrected.

“And that evidence exists?” Lestrade probed.

“Yes.”

“Well, if you have it, now  _ would  _ be the time to share, Sherlock, or you can just continue to observe the scene from outside the tape.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.

Sherlock took the phone away from his ear and flicked through his messages, forwarding the two from Battersea and the two he had just received. He put the phone back up to his ear just in time to hear the four pings echo down the line, the messages having reached their intended recipient.

“OK,” Lestrade acknowledged. “This is enough. You wait until I arrive before doing anything though. And don’t go pissing everyone off in meantime.”

Sherlock considered his interaction with the immovable officer. A difference of opinion, he dismissed, not “pissing off”.

The look on John’s face said otherwise.


	34. Seen Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 34  by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Madness
> 
> Ruelle • Madness 
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ar9Om-NcBFk 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0XVQTr58DZbLUcjacnTp8k?si=OdgJAIqmRmOnvP8FeYtCYw 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

In the time it had taken Sherlock to summon Lestrade, three more liveried City Police vehicles had arrived on the scene, disgorging a plethora of officers, some uniformed and some not. Sherlock had paced dramatically while they both watched the police spend their first few minutes securing the scene. Yellow tape instead of the Yard's usual blue and white. After the officer to be the one in charge of the crime scene had a brief chat with the “parking” Constable, three of the other uniformed police stayed on the scene while the other two proceeded to the lift lobby and presumably up to the thirty-fifth floor.

John tried to look as innocuously unthreatening as possible as the “parking” Constable spoke with the OiC and with someone in plain clothes that John assumed was a detective inspector. And he had to physically restrain Sherlock from reacting when the Constable gestured rather animatedly in their direction.

_ Come on Lestrade, where are you? _

It must have only been fifteen or so minutes before Lestrade arrived on scene, but with Sherlock huffing and puffing at his side, it felt a whole lot longer. Even Lestrade didn't dare parking illegally within the ring of steel, so he had an escort drop him and Donovan off at the kerb.

“Wait here, both of you,” Lestrade instructed as he reached them and the tape. Sherlock opened his mouth to voice a protest at the order but Lestrade just gave him a look and told him to shut it.

For the next few minutes Lestrade was engaged in an in-depth discussion with the OiC and the DI. Standing next to him, the Constable didn't really seem to like what he was hearing and looked over to Sherlock and scowled.

Sherlock smiled widely, his lips thin and gave the officer a wave.

“Behave,” John hissed under his breath. Good God, it would be just like Sherlock to end up in custody twice in the one day!

A moment later, Lestrade came back over.

“Okay, this is now a joint City/Yard investigation. You  _ can _ be here, but only with an escort,” Lestrade instructed.

“How am I supposed to work under those conditions?” Sherlock pouted.

“Just like the rest of us ordinary folk.” Lestrade lifted up the tape and waited for Sherlock to step under.

“Boring.”

Lestrade’s voice took on a warning tone. “All the same, Sherlock.”

“John too.”

“Yes, John too,” Lestrade agreed. “Right, follow me and try not to piss everyone off even more. And for god's sake, give me back my bloody warrant card.”

At least, John thought, Sherlock had the decency to look slightly apologetic as he handed it over.

Donovan approached from the side. “You know, I really wasn't planning on seeing you again today, freak.”

“Ditto, Donovan,” Sherlock singsonged as he snapped on a pair of gloves that Lestrade had handed him.

Donovan scowled.

And John stepped under the tape to join them.

_ Sherlock _

With the body lying atop the roof of the BMW, it didn't provide for the easiest of examinations. Sherlock circled the vehicle, considering at the body from every angle, with John following suit.

"A jumper? Suicide?" The City of London DI, a smartly suited man in his mid-forties was looking up at the curved façade of the building.   
  
"No, a murder victim," Sherlock snapped. 

The victim lay lengthways across the roof. A roof which now sported an indentation of at least thirty centimetres at some points, courtesy of the force of the impact.

_ Female. Late thirties, early forties. Blonde, mid length hair, pulled back from her face, no fringe. Of average attractiveness, Sherlock assessed. Gloves. Necklace. Woolen suit jacket and skirt. Blouse. Stockings. One shoe still affixed to her left foot, the other lying on the road a couple of metres away. _

“Clothes are new,” Sherlock announced to no-one in particular. He pushed the body up and onto her left side. “Skirt still has the fixing stitch in the back flare. Sole,” he went to retrieve the other shoe. “Correction,  _ soles _ of her shoes barely worn.”

_ Why? Why here? Why her? _

“She's rather dressed up to plunge to her death …” John observed.

Sherlock crooked his head to the side and regarded the body and John's words.

_ Dressed up, expensive clothes, attractive, beautiful … a beautiful suicide. _

“Yes, dressed up,” Sherlock agreed.

“Dressed up for her death?” John's eyebrows furrowed.

“Not just dressed up for her death, John, dressed up for the image of her death. I've seen this before.”

“You've seen this before? Now there’s a coincidence,” Donovan cut in with her opinion.

“Coincidence, Donovan? I think not. Unlike you, the universe is seldom so lazy.”

Sherlock turned to John. “You’ve seen this before. We all have.”  He took of a glove and brought up an image on his phone as both John and Lestrade craned their necks to take a look over his shoulder. A photo; black and white, taken in 1947, of twenty three year old Evelyn McHale, and a caption:

" _ At the bottom of Empire State Building the body of Evelyn McHale reposes calmly in grotesque bier, her falling body punched into the top of a car." _

_ “The Most Beautiful Suicide,” _ that's what the media referred to it as,” Sherlock pronounced. “Look, look at her suit, her hair, her stockings, clutching her necklace. And look at our victim. There’s no way she could have recreated the image perfectly. But it's a pretty good staging.”

“She's a person, Sherlock, not a work of art,” Donovan spat out. “You could show some compassion.”

“Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?” The City of London DI demanded.

“Do you serve any purpose in this world save to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide?” Sherlock turned on Donovan. ”Compassion has no place at a crime scene. Compassion, like sentiment, detracts from rational thought, skews reasoning, fabricates meaning where no such meaning exists. I am here to solve a crime, not provide compassion. Besides which, it’s not as if she needs our compassion. She’s dead, if you hadn't noticed.”

Then, before Donovan could reopen her mouth to respond and the City of London DI could get any more demanding, John interrupted. “I wonder why she chose this way to die?”

_ Chose _ .

Chose.

“John,” Sherlock clapped his hands together with glee. “John. Yes, not just staged, but  _ chosen _ . Something about the deaths appealed to all of them.  _ That’s _ how he convinced them to do it. They would have already been contemplating suicide, obviously, but just because one is suicidal, one doesn't just ask for assistance. Quite the opposite, in fact. He knew something, found out something about each of them. And provided the death they wanted.”

“This one.” Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “You will probably find this one has an interest in photography, or modern art. Warhol also appropriated the image. Maybe a gallery owner or assistant? Find out which galleries are currently showing or have shown Warhol’s  _ Death and Disaster _ series.”

Sherlock was gathering steam, and speed.

“Battersea. The crucifixion … A religious studies student? Or … something about the location itself? Too young to have worked there, maybe a relative did? And it’s not just Battersea. The case in Galway as well. Leeches. There's a reason he chose leeches. He entices them with a death of their choice. Honey in their ears, promises.”

“That’s absolutely brilliant!” John declared.

There it was. Sherlock let it flow over him. John's adoration - the adoration that Sherlock had started to worry might have been slipping. And true to form, Sherlock preened, glowing beneath it.

“Hang on,” Lestrade's confusion was growing by the second. “You know who did this? You saw him? And Galway? The leech case is connected to this too? What the hell is going on here, Sherlock?” Lestrade demanded.

John grinned at the last question. That was usually his line.


	35. Right, Gimme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 35 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Wolves (Alternate Version)
> 
> Sam Tinnesz, Silverberg • Babel: The Ruins
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0r2cQJT43Y 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3Dl9HkkXBfLEG9JfcWOtMs?si=NNgGtTevTE2qB05EBbs63Q 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ John _

Leaving the local Forensics team to process the scene, John rode the lift to the thirty-fifth floor with Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan. On the way up, John whispered to Sherlock. “It  _ was _ him, in the lift, Moriarty. He saw me, and he let me see him.”

Sherlock didn't look at him, didn't move his eyes from where they were focused on the screen above the lift doors and the floor numbers that kept going higher. But under his breath he replied. “I know.”

His hands stuffed in the pockets of his Belstaff, Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the observation deck as soon as they stepped out of the lift. The only people on the floor now were the two City Police Officers out on the deck; conversing with a building security guard, and gesturing to the cameras affixed to either side of the platform.

“And where exactly were  _ you  _ when this happened?” Donovan stopped walking and turned to face Sherlock.

_Right ho,_ _back at this again then._

“ _ We,” _ John corrected her, “were up there.” He pointed to the terrace. “Check the cameras.”

Donovan, thankfully, decided to do just that, interrupting the progress of one of the Officers who was now on her way, aforementioned security guard in tow, to the building security office. 

John, Sherlock, and Lestrade headed out onto the deck. The precise point the woman had stepped over was taped off, held guard by the remaining Officer, but that still left enough room, without them having to breach the perimeter of the tape, to lean over the side and survey where the body had landed.

John squinted at the scene below and turned back to Sherlock. “How tall is this thing, 150 metres? That makes for a tiny margin of error. To hit a target with a rifle from the same distance you would need to factor in … cross wind, air pressure, temperature ...”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully at John, his curls battered back and forth by the wind and rain coming in sideways onto the deck. “All doable by someone with the right … training, and … “ Sherlock turned, scanning the roof, the walls and then proceeding to lean way out over the railing. “Ah yes,” he drew John’s attention to a small device affixed underneath the handrail, “a portable weather station. You'll be wanting that, Lestrade.”

Lestrade set off in search of Donovan and a means of extracting the device, and John and Sherlock headed back inside.

A feeling of growing unease started to seep into John’s stomach. If there had been any doubt about the expertise of Moriarty and Moran, pulling off this … “stunt” ... had put those doubts to rest. Psychopaths were always a worrying species, but trained, skilled psychopaths … John had come across more than his fair share during his time in the army. Men who were not only comfortable following the most morally questionable of orders, but seemed to revel in it.

_ More than dangerous. _

John looked up to find Sherlock studying him carefully. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock could read in his features but his eyes narrowed in understanding. Sherlock held John’s worried gaze and then one second later the silence was broken by a very loud rumble from John’s stomach.

“What?” John challenged as Sherlock’s eyebrows met his dripping fringe of curls. “I’m hungry.”

“Well,” Sherlock declared, “we can definitely do something about that.” He left John in the middle of the floor and headed straight over to the deserted cafe counter, its attendants having been ordered off the floor along with all the tourists when the City Police had taken control.

_ Sherlock _

Although he never had been able to figure out the exact reason why, Sherlock quite enjoyed it when he got a chance to look after John. John was the one who ensured that they were regularly fed, ordered the take-out and ran the emergency late night errands to Tesco when required. But Sherlock revelled in his small, but he considered, vitaly important role of ensuring John’s morning and afternoon tea needs were adequately met.

_ Now what would John like? _

Reaching behind the counter he snagged a chocolate chip muffin and a banana. He gave a second banana a moment's consideration before discarding the thought - he simply wasn’t hungry. But tea, now if only … yes. In their haste, the erstwhile attendants hadn’t bothered to shut down the coffee making facilities and as a result the boiling water tap was still, boiling. Not the optimum temperature for steeping, but beggars, as the saying went, and Sherlock reasoned, could not be choosers at this particular moment.

Crossing behind the counter, Sherlock set himself to work preparing tea for John and himself in  _ (shudder) _ disposable paper cups, while John, from across the floor, hoisted himself up on one of the black and white stools alongside the high cafe tables, swinging his legs that didn’t quite reach the ground as he looked on with fondness.

Sherlock grinned back.

Teas prepared, snacks in hand, Sherlock sauntered back across the floor to join John. He placed the items down on the table and eased himself onto the second chair, just as John remarked: “You know, if you ever get bored with this whole detective gig, I reckon you could make a fair living out of waiting tables.”

“Well, it does always pay to maintain a diverse skill set,” Sherlock concurred as he lifted his cup to his lips.

“By the way.” John smiled around a mouthful of muffin as a thought struck him. “Warhol, modern art?”

Sherlock set his cup back down on the table and narrowed his eyes in consideration of John's query. “Yes, why not? Contemporary art has provided some of the world’s most meaningful movements. Expressionism, Surrealism, Abstractionism. Even Dadaism served to translate the set of ideals and beliefs that motivated the members of a society in a  particular period in time.”

“Couldn’t the same be said about modern music,” John cast his mind back to Sherlock’s vigorous eschewing of anything even slightly to the left of classical. ‘What does that reveal about today’s society?”

“Nothing except that it has quite frankly appalling taste.”

They both grinned at each other. And were still grinning when Lestrade made his way across to them.

“Right, so City Police will provide a copy of the files by tomorrow morning, Forensic’s report should be ready by about then and we are just in the process of finding someone to remove that device. An orchestrated suicide ...” Lestrade shut his eyes as he rubbed his fingers across his temple, clearly trying to banish a headache.

When he opened them again, the DI surveyed the table and glared. "Really, consuming evidence? Contaminating a crime scene?"    
  
“The café is outside the perimeter of the fall, besides which, do you really think John's banana played a role in the women's demise? … fine specimen that it is.”

John just almost choked on his tea and Sherlock smirked.

“And,” Sherlock returned his attention to Lestrade, “it is more a case of orchestrated  _ murder _ .”

“Right, gimme,” Lestrade prompted.

“You want a seat?” John asked, and gestured to one of the spare chairs nearby.

“I’m alright,” Lestrade declined, looking instead to Sherlock.

Sherlock conducted a number of rapid calculations, trying to figure out just how much of his brother’s confidence he could impart to Lestrade.

“Jim Moriarty, that’s the one you are looking for. He’s the one who planted my blood on the last victim, and the one behind all the rest of these.”

“Who is he? You going to tell me how or why you know he's the one behind all this?” Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John who just shrugged and back to Sherlock again.   
  
"I need evidence that would convince a judge if you expect me to arrest someone, Sherlock. A name is not enough."   
  
"It's all I can give you … for now."   


“Fine, for the time being I don’t care, I'll take a look into him. But there  _ will _ come a time, Sherlock, when I  _ will _ need to know.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And,” then Lestrade’s tone softened. “Uh, about this morning, I’m uh, sorry about all that.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock looked down at his tea rather than up at the Detective Inspector. “You were just doing your job.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade now looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. “But still, I trust you Sherlock.”

Finally Sherlock looked up. “I know you do,” he said thoughtfully, and into the distance as Donovan appeared and started towards them.


	36. Protect You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 36 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Hold My Hand
> 
> Isak Danielson • Yours
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfmvb_GvLMw   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/3tAql6g0mylGdQyRa2kCPN 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

After all was said and done, it was nearly six o'clock by the time they finally made their way back to Baker Street. The light, barely apparent during the daytime, had well and truly started to fail come early evening, making the cold and the wet feel so much colder and wetter.

Lestrade had taken off shortly after Donovan had re-appeared, but Sherlock had insisted that he and John spend the better part of the next few hours zig zagging their way through the streets of the Financial District looking for … well John wasn’t really sure, but Sherlock had been insistent. Insistent and slightly withdrawn, and slipping further and further into ennui the farther they travelled. 

Shrugging out of his heavy sodden jacket next to Sherlock’s equally soaked Belstaff and hanging it by the door of 221B, John called back over his shoulder.

“You want take out? Indian?”

Sherlock, having situated himself at the kitchen table with five tabs already open on his laptop, simply muttered something unintelligible in reply.

Fortunately, John was fluent in non-verbal Sherlockian.

_ Indian it was then. _

Delivery took 35 minutes and by seven o’clock, Sherlock had extracted himself from the kitchen and joined John on the couch, take out containers and the remnants of butter chicken, lamb korma, and naan bread now littering the coffee table. Sherlock continued to be no more communicative than he had been on their unproductive walking tour and the rest of the evening passed in relative silence in front of the television. Which, if John was to be honest, suited him just fine. He was tired _.  _ An early, stressful morning, a longer day. And at the back of his mind, the worry. About Sherlock. About Moriarty ... 

_ About … them.  _

Not that, having become aware of it, people hadn't in the past tried to exploit their partnership in an effort to exert influence. The more astute criminals and non-criminals (Donovan, Mycroft, et al) alike had quickly recognised the importance of Sherlock to John, and vice versa, and on more than one occasion, attempted to use it against them, against each other. So in this regard, Moriarty was no different. 

But Sherlock's reaction, from the start, had been different. The first time Moriarty had made his appearance, Sherlock had stared after the man like he was chasing off an intruder, an … unwelcome suitor ...

_ He didn't think? _

No, he couldn't think that John returned Moriarty's interest in any manner, shape or form! Good god, it wasn't even remotely flattering to have garnered the attention of a sociopath, no matter how tightly cut his breeches were. And John had certainly never given Sherlock any reason to doubt that, had he?

Besides, Sherlock wasn't the jealous type. Sure, he fixed anyone who encroached on John's personal space at a crime scene (even if only in a familiar manner), with the full force of his razor sharp mind and eviscerating deductions as a matter of priority. But never had he displayed  the type of blood boiling, murderous intent that seethed through John's veins whenever Sherlock's brilliant mind or breathtaking looks drew admiring glances.

In the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, and in the cab proffering his apology, Sherlock had seemed … worried, concerned, bordering on fearful. That was new. Annoyed, exasperated, irritated; Sherlock's emotions ran the gamut of those of a sulky toddler, frustrated that the rest of the world couldn't understand his genius. But like a toddler, oblivious to the risk the outside world posed, he had never shown any sign of fear. Until now.

_ Dammit this was getting him nowhere! _

A bit more crap telly, a few fingers of whisky (in which Sherlock joined him in partaking), and John was ready for bed. As John made to collect their glasses, Sherlock moved to place a hand on the arm that reached out to collect his tumbler. 

John regarded the gesture, before declining the invitation. “It's been a long day, not really in the mood for anything.”

Sherlock, previously languid, was on him in an instant, eyes sharpening. “You've never said that before.”

“Look,’ John rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not saying I don’t want it … or you,” he assured quickly. "I'm just tired and not feeling it right now.”

Sherlock took his hand away carefully and John proceeded to the kitchen.

John didn't quite sigh as he placed the glasses in the sink because he wasn't sure how it would be interpreted, or maybe he did, and just didn't want to give Sherlock that impression. A thought niggles at  him though. It had taken hold of his mind in the cab and wouldn't let go. Crossing the floor, he stopped before heading down the hall to their bedroom. He turned slightly, seeking Sherlock's attention.

“Why did you apologize?”

Sherlock just looked blankly at him so John clarified, though he was absolutely sure Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about. “In the cab, before Sky Garden ...”

John wasn't looking for a fight, not at this hour, but by the look that appeared on Sherlock's face, he was pretty sure he was just about to get one.

“Isn't that what people do?” Sherlock snapped.

Yup, he'd gotten one, and now John was too tired and worn out to fully regulate his interactions in the usual way he did with Sherlock to make sure the man didn't get the wrong end of the emotional stick.

“What I just want to know, is what is going on?” John turned his body fully towards Sherlock and let his shoulders fall into what he hoped was a concerned, not accusatorial stance.

“You know very well what is going on, John," Sherlock dryly asserted. "Due to my brother’s pathetic meddling, a psychopath and his equally anti-social but, and again courtesy of my brother,  _ highly-trained _ henchman, have somehow decided that we are the sadistic entertainment they have been looking to amuse themselves with. And  _ I _ am trying to figure out a way to stop them.”

“No Sherlock,” John's tone dropped patiently. “I want to know what is going on with  _ you _ . If you’re worried about something, tell me so I can help."

_ Please _ .

Sherlock just stared back at him, and blinked, and blinked once more. Eventually John exhaled the sigh he could no longer hold in, turned, and disappeared down the hall, into their room.

He was too far away to catch Sherlock's words when he finally did respond.

“I'm just trying to protect you.”

 

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock was worried. And frustrated. But mostly worried. He'd been that way since Ireland and had become increasingly so since their "enlightening" chat with Mycroft. 

He hadn’t strictly needed to comb the back streets of Sky Garden. But he _had_ required a way to burn off the worry, and he hadn’t wanted to risk dashing off on John again, not in the short time, not so soon after his Battersea “bit of not good.” So he'd kept going, with John by his side, for the next few hours, hoping that the movement would help to simmer his concern down from its current state of rapid boil. 

It hadn’t; if anything, it had just turned the temperature up on the worry. 

So as soon as they had returned to the flat he'd pulled up every of article on “influenced” suicides he could find. The 17 year old high school student who convinced her “boyfriend” via text message to get back in his carbon monoxide filling truck. The 43 year old licenced practical nurse who met his victims in “suicide” chat rooms and was by all accounts, successful in convincing at least two of them to hang themselves. And the 68 year old man who “counselled” his wife to take her own life in order to access her life insurance benefits. The world, it seemed, had no shortage of psychopaths with this modus operandi. But theatrical displays, purposeful staging simply for effect and victims who participated willingly — Moriarty’s methods spoke to a cunning none of the garden variety psychopaths could ever aspire to achieve. 

_ A breed apart. _

So here he was, with an adversary, the likes of which he had never encountered before and an evening that had taken a rapid turn for the worse.

Ever since he and John had entered into a more intimate relationship, Sherlock had found himself better able to deduce the actions of the largely enigmatic man. The benefits of observation at close physical proximity, he reasoned, had made the slight puffs of breaths preceding the sniffs of rage, more obvious, the slight flex of extensor tendon on the back of the hand that twitched before the fist tightened, more noticeable and the lines between the eyebrows that deepened by a millimeter the second before his whole face broke into a delighted grin were more pronounced. In essence what he able to see, was more of John. Not all of him though, he suspected John would always retain that amount of mystery that kept Sherlock, a junkie to the core, completely and utterly addicted.

_ “Not in the mood.” _

Tired, hungry, ill, it had never mattered before. John had always wanted him right then and there, whenever Sherlock expressed even the slightest amount of interest. Now John had pushed him away, rejected him. But had Sherlock pushed him away first? Had Battersea been more than “a bit not good’? This, affairs of the heart, had never really been his area. He had no idea what to make of all of it now and was unsure what was required of him.

Pushing himself up and out of his chair, Sherlock strode into the kitchen and fished one of the tumblers out of the sink. He would have smoked,  _ needed _ to smoke, but he didn't want to disappoint John anymore than he clearly already had.

Just one more drink though.

He needed to think.


	37. Seduce Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 37 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Island
> 
> Svrcina • Island
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f41dgqET2uY   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/53oegzMlMGvTO01Eqi1X0q 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

John woke up to the grey of the morning creeping in through the open curtains and a bed completely devoid of gangly consulting detective. Sherlock's clothes were draped over the arm of the chair but Sherlock hadn’t made it to bed at all last night. Not a particularly unusual occurrence, since the man often resided night and day on the couch when he had been ruminating on a case, however with the way their conversation had been left last night, John had more than a little cause for concern. That was, until he heard the undignified squeaking of leather coming from the direction of the living room.

_ Mad bugger _ , John mused fondly.  _ He should have known. _

Walking out into the sitting room John was, as anticipated, treated to the sight of a barefooted Sherlock bounding from armchair to armchair, stepping down onto the coffee table and then back onto the couch, bare toes digging into the leather for purchase and navy silk dressing gown fluttering behind him. All the while not taking his eyes off the screen of his phone.

“Sleep much?” John queried in mock innocence, knowing full well the answer.

Sherlock looked at him as if he had just proposed spending the night at the opera with his parents rather than simply inquiring as to whether he had managed to get a few hours shut eye in order to renew his serotonin levels. “Sleep? Sleep? No time for sleep, John!”

Before John could utter another word, Sherlock launched into rapid fire monologue. “Did you know John that when exposed to the sweat from the armpits of first time skydivers, subjects showed considerably more activity in their amygdalae and hypothalami than subjects who breathed in regular exercise sweat?”

“Okay, gross but interesting — ”

“And in addition, on an emotion recognition task, the "fear sweat" subjects were 43 percent more accurate at judging whether a face bore a threatening or neutral expression than those who had inhaled the workout sweat?”

“What the hell are you reading, Sherlock?” John interrupted. He really hadn’t had enough tea to be in any fit state for this type of conversation so early in the day.

“It's called The Wisdom of Psychopaths, John,” Sherlock answered, seemingly enraptured by the topic, if not a little manic. "See," he turned the screen of his phone to face John displaying the Kindle cover and the forward facing piercing amber eyes of a great grey owl. "Fascinating!” 

“You know,” John started to caution, “you really would be better off consulting the DSM IV for a more scientific approach ...”

“Yes, yes, but this makes more sense. This makes Moriarty make sense. Medical science paints a picture of disinhibition characterised by irresponsibility and impulsivity; individuals who act on the spur of the moment in response to immediate stimuli, without plan or consideration of outcome. That as we know, is not a picture of our adversary.

"In Moriarty we have a grandiose sense of self-worth, persuasiveness, superficial charm, ruthlessness, lack of remorse, and the manipulation of others in pursuit of a well defined, if not entirely unpleasant," Sherlock allowed, "goal. A psychopathic genius able to utilise his inherent behavioural characteristics to his greatest advantage. There are many successful psychopaths in society, or at least successful persons capitalizing on psychopathic traits. Take you for example …"

"Take me for WHAT?" John's eyebrows and tone raised simultaneously in offense.

Both of which Sherlock ignored, ploughing on.

" … by all rights an upstanding member of society. A doctor, a military man. Honorable, moral, ethical. But, your ability to stay calm, get calmer under pressure speaks to the fearless arctic neurology of the psychopath."

Sherlock shushed John's repeated stuttering attempts to protest such an abhorrent suggestion with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Of course, in your case it is most likely descended from courage, of repeated exposure to danger."

"But this,” Sherlock tapped the screen with his index finger repeatedly, "this suggests that there is also a biological basis to psychopathic character traits, making some individuals, like our foe, consciously and unconsciously impermeable to even the minutest trace of anxiety antigens."

“You know, if you are trying to seduce me Sherlock, likening me to a psychopath is going about it entirely the wrong way,” John muttered wryly.

Sherlock's monologue halted abruptly halted as his eyes locked on John's, sparkling, sharp. He cocked his head to one side appraisingly. “And if I was going about it the right way, what would the likelihood of success be this morning?”

John grimace spread into a grin. “Give me a snog first and we’ll see.”

Sherlock bounded over, tossing his phone onto the couch on the way.

Quivering and jittery with adrenaline from too much brain activity and too little sleep, Sherlock launched himself at John with the frenetic energy of a newborn giraffe. Limbs everywhere and little to none of his usual graceful finesse. And John, though eliciting a startled ooof at the suddenness of the assault, found himself rising to the occasion quite nicely.

When their lips and tongues finally parted, as they both took a moment to catch their breath, John pursed his lips in mock consideration and then grinned. "Yeah, I think chances of success are quite high."

"Indeed," Sherlock smirked, palming John's half hard erection through his pajama pants.

"Oi you, shower first though!"

In response to which Sherlock grabbed his hand and practically dragged him to the bathroom.

_ Yes, tea could wait this morning. _

 

_ Sherlock _

Relinquishing his grip on John's hand, Sherlock bent down to adjust the taps and the flow from the shower head to his precise preference. The ancient pipes groaned under the strain of the water making its way from the hot water tank.

"About last night, though," John started, leaning back against the bathroom door and crossing his arms against the grey cotton t-shirt stretched across his chest.

"It's fine, it's all fine," Sherlock hastily assured over his shoulder as he straightened up, shrugging his dressing gown off his shoulders to fall, pooling around his feet on the bath mat. The last thing he wanted this morning was to revisit the previous night's conversation.

"That's usually my line," John pointed out cautiously as he pushed himself off the door frame and started to undress.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in study of the embossed patterning on the white tiled wall in front of him.

_ Yes it was. _

"You'd let me know if there was something, though?" John continued to prod. "Something important?"

At that Sherlock turned his head and his eyes met the concerned blue depths of John's.

"Of course," he insisted …

… and truly hoped he meant it.


	38. Past Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 38 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Human
> 
> Aquilo • Silhouettes 
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50fBVpjz8qI   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0h69cnBUjM51StfH6ak3UR 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ Sherlock _

What he was doing, what he wouldn't do to protect the perfect man standing before him. Now in just his pajama pants, sleep tousled hair just a bit more tousled than usual with the extra length, the dim bulb in the bathroom cast barely a glow over John's rounded shoulders and sparsely haired, muscular chest. 

The bathroom never did provide the best light to study John's physique, but John had insisted that the bulb stay lest Sherlock replace it with one of sufficient wattage to enable experiments to be conducted in that part of the flat as well. 

_ ("There is a limit Sherlock!") _

So between that and the meager amount light creeping in between the three hyacinth bulbs sprouting in their glass balloons on the small high windowsill ...

_ ("Just some greenery John, not an experiment!" …. well not yet, at least ...) _

… Sherlock filled in the shadowed places with the infinite details held safe in his mind palace room of all things "John". The tiny ripples in the firm external obliques that made way for the lean flat plains of latissimus dorsi waiting to be discovered by fingertips dancing over muscle and flesh. The thoracolumbar fascia that would spread warmly under worshiping palms and over iliac crests to the strength of the exquisite gluteus maximus below. Calves that tapered to ...

It took Sherlock more than a moment to realise that rather than just conjuring the images, he really should be doing better things with the half naked man in front of him. He pulled his thoughts back only to find a sly smirk pulling at the side of John's lips, seemingly amused by Sherlock's distraction.

_ Oh, is that so … game on then … _

Discovery.

Holding John's gaze, Sherlock proceeded to remove his own t-shirt over his head from the back of his neck with one hand, tensing the muscles of his abdomen as he did. John's gaze unconsciously drifted from Sherlock's face to his belly and further south just as his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.

Attack.

Wriggling his hips a little more than  _ strictly _ necessary, Sherlock shimmied out of his loose cotton pajama bottoms, stepping out of them and scooting all his discarded clothing in one messy heap into the corner of the bathroom with an outstretched foot. Could he help it if the muscles in his thighs flexed as he did and his semi-hard erection bobbed with the motion? No more than John could prevent his gaze from fixing right on it.

Check.

Running his fingers through his hair, Sherlock then let his eyes slide shut as his hands drifted down over the back and across the front of his neck, drawing John's attention back up to Sherlock's face and John's tongue-tip out again.  

And … checkmate.

John continued to stare after him as Sherlock turned to step over the rim of the tub and under the spray.

 

_ John _

"You getting in or are you just going to stand there and watch?" Sherlock called back over his shoulder, jolting John out of his pleasant daze.

Hastily shucking off the rest of his clothing and clambering into the tub, John settled himself in to the space behind Sherlock, his chest pressed to the man's alabaster back, his arms wrapped around the lithe waist. 

Showers with Sherlock was one of John's favourite pastimes. Many favourite _past_ _times_ to be exact, though if Mrs Hudson had noticed the higher gas bill, she hadn't deemed it necessary to comment. And while Sherlock had dedicated himself to the task of experimenting with a number of shower heads in order to find one that could work with the less than optimal flow and still provide adequate coverage for them both, even the genius had been thwarted. So it wasn't perfect, but simply being able to, welcome to, wrap himself around the beautiful man in front of him made everything, including the cold prickling his arse, totally worth it.

John lay his cheek carefully alongside the crest of Sherlock's neck and allowed the water to cascade off the slick black curls and over his face. He adored Sherlock's hair in the shower. The way the sleek sinuous curls ran through his fingers and the end coiled around them. The inky black way the hair ran flat against his skull, slicking together and creating channels to guide the water off his body, down his neck, and across his chest, shoulders and back. The way one of his curls always curved a bit more to the left of his temple, causing the rivulets to flow across and down those devastatingly sharp, distractingly gorgeous cheekbones.

He loved the way Sherlock seemed to, with the warmth of their joined bodies and the steam enveloping them, be as close to being at peace as he ever was outside of sleep. Even now, strung out from too little sleep and too much neural activity, Sherlock was beginning to soften.

John cherished the way Sherlock would bring his large hands up to cup John's face, encouraging John's eyes to slide shut as the brilliant man ran his thumbs back and forth across the top of John's cheekbones, sweeping from the crease of his nose softly up over his cheeks to his temples in reverent rhythm of adoration.

John would cover Sherlock's wide hands with his own smaller ones and follow along as Sherlock continued down the sides of John's head and his neck, tracing the contours of John's jaw, feeling the precise tendons shift and move as Sherlock's nimble fingers dipped and swept beneath his. John would hum into each and every touch and eventually blink open his eyes to find the cerulean blue of Sherlock’s, focused solely on him.

How unbelievably privileged he felt to be the focal point of this beautiful man. He would reach over and place his hands on Sherlock's face. Smaller, not quite covering everything as Sherlock could, but just as tenderly just as reverently. He would sweep aside the curls on Sherlock's forehead, raising himself up and guiding Sherlock down to bring their faces together, rivulets streaming between them, until their lips finally met and the water had no place to go save around their joined mouths and tongues.

The fine spray would catch in the jet black lashes as their tongues moved languorously, tiny beads of water dancing subtley in the diminished light. Sherlock would purr, a low breathy rumble with every slick, thick slide of their tongues, both their breathing becoming a bit more ragged as their heat rates increased. Until tongues weren't enough, weren't nearly enough. Until hands slid to backs of necks and shoulders, ghosted down arms, up slick pectorals and back down over sides. Fingers tracing muscles and flesh, hip bones and iliac crests, wandering through and around fine sparse hairs on upper, inner thighs and soft curls below belly buttons.

Sensitive flesh would shiver and goose-bump, pinken and ripple under pads of thumbs and fingers and palms. The soft slide of tongues and lips would deepen. Easy breaths would become ragged and reverent caresses would become greedy, demanding and urgent. Soap slicked fingers would reach into creases and slide forward over pereniums and balls, curling and stroking as hips pressed forward, bellies trapping rapidly more insistent erections in between muscles and fine, soft layers of fat. 

Hands would trade places between strokes. Incessant tugs on balls exchanged for strong firm pulls and sly twists across heads of cocks, encouraging beads of precome. Fingers would grasp more soap as the water washed away the slippery slide and replaced it with the staccato of wet skin on skin. Pulls and longer thrusts becoming more insistent as both would try desperately to attempt everything at once, until one would cede care to the other. 

Pants interspersed with bitten out exclamations of benediction as the pace became more frantic, guts clenching chasing release, tight and firm and exhalations turning into streams of blasphemy. Fingers dug into shoulders, holding on desperately, waiting for the peak and then the release, come joining soap and spray running down stomachs and fists and thighs, mixing in wirey curls and running clear.

Ragged shaky breaths as positions reversed and trembling hormone spiked fingers reciprocated until they both stood shivering, wet skin clinging to wet skin, rasped pants and belabored breathing easing to deep breaths and easy sighs and hums of contentment. Standing there until the water tank signaled the end with the last streams of rapidly cooling water.

He loved that, all of that, the way it always was. This time was different somehow. Sherlock's touches, though still reverent were more insistent, holding tighter, closer, even at the end.

Not wanting to let go.


	39. There's More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 39 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Wild
> 
> Adam Jones, K.S. Rhoads • Wild
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oW-gC2FbGtE   
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/4hMX6h3jKZ48bnFusyqphs 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw

_ John _

Sherlock was still ensconced in the bathroom ensuring each and every curl was perfectly in place when Mrs Hudson opened the front door to Lestrade on her way out. John, standing in the open doorway of the flat, having just collected the morning paper from downstairs, was perfectly placed to bear witness to the interrogation she put the Detective Inspector through before she would permit him entry.

“You're not here to take Sherlock away again, are you? All that silliness over nothing. It's not good for one's heart, Detective Inspector!”

Mrs Hudson was a veritable force to be reckoned with when she was in her "mothering" mode, and a very contrite, apologetic Lestrade did his best to made amends.

“No, Mrs Hudson. You're right, Mrs Hudson. Very sorry about all of that, Mrs Hudson. It won’t happen again.”

“Well, then, you see to it that it doesn’t.” 

John smiled to himself at Lestrade’s dismissal. “Lestrade,” John greeted him as the Detective Inspector appeared at the top of the stairs.

At the DI's name, and his responding greeting to John, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, perfectly polished, his interest piqued.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade nodded in greeting, then “there’s a bunch of flowers outside.”

Walking out into the sitting room, fastening the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, Sherlock's nose wrinkled curiously. “That’s very sweet Lestrade, but I  _ did _ already inform you that an apology wasn’t necessary.”

“They’re not from me.”

Sherlock eyes flicked quickly to John.

“They weren't there a few minutes ago,” John advised as he gestured to the paper in his hands.

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade, “you haven't touched them?”

“'Course not,” Lestrade responded, momentarily insulted until he seemed to remember something else, and his tone dropped lower. “That's not all. There's a note.”

Sherlock glanced at John again, John tossed the paper onto the side table, and all three of them proceeded downstairs to the street. One of Lestrade’s officers was standing guard outside the front door, the flowers, a bouquet of helleborus wrapped in brown paper, set on the step at his feet.

Squatting down, Sherlock motioned to Lestrade for a pen and once provided, used it to flip over the note, attached to the flowers with raffia, as John squatted down next to him.

Words, handwritten, in black ink.

_ To John. _

 

_ Roses are red _

_ Violets are blue _

_ Do you get it yet? _

_ They are all for you. _

 

John felt himself blanch.

Sherlock stood up, leaving John crouched on the pavement and turned to Lestrade. “You need to get someone to look at them.”

“Already on their way,” Lestrade affirmed and then took a breath and as his gaze shifted to John, his next words sounding almost apologetic. “That’s not all though.”

John exhaled deeply and ran a hand through his growing fringe, pushing it back off his forehead. “What now?”

“Can we?” Lestrade gestured back inside the flat.

Sherlock regarded the DI, and John, and then nodded. John stood a little shakily and followed behind mutely.

_ "All for you.” _

 

_ Sherlock _

Perhaps it was leftover tension from the morning before, or maybe it was because they all knew what was coming next was not going to be easy. At any rate, none of them chose to take a seat. 

Lestrade spoke. “Galway got a lead on the leech victim this morning. English investment banker. Disappeared after a stag "do" in Dublin. Family just assumed he had stayed a little longer. No one noticed him missing 'til he failed to show up for work.”

“Not a lot of friends, investment bankers,” Sherlock mused, then his sharp eyes fixed Lestrade to the spot. “That’s not all though is it?” 

“Uh ... no,” Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John guiltily. “Thing is, the guy’s name … Jon Wasson, spelt J-O-N W-A-S-S-O-N,.”

Sherlock's eyes flared as John swayed a little and reached out to grip the back of the arm chair. “Fuck.”

_ The code used by the leech victim: H.A.M.I.S.H _

_ Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence. _

Lestrade continued. “A search of his social media history revealed his presence on a number of mental health support chat rooms. Messages strings have been deleted but we're trying to recover them.”

John was now looking positively ill, and Sherlock was becoming seriously concerned that he might very well throw up.

"What about the others, do we have anything on them yet?" Sherlock prompted impatiently, his attention back on Lestrade.

"Still nothing on Battersea, but the thing at Sky Garden attracted quite a bit of attention on social media, including a photo of the body before the scene was secure. Victim's brother," Lestrade flicked back through a couple of pages in his notebook, "A Matthew Reilly, positively identified her late last night as Lauren Reilly, age 35 from ..."

"What was that name?" John interrupted. Sherlock looked to him sharply.

"Lauren …" Lestrade attempted to repeat.

"No, the brother."

Lestrade reviewed his notes again. A "Matthew Reilly,” military type, currently on furlough.. Only in town for a couple of weeks.

John took a shallow breath as his first and jaw clenched. "Matthew Reilly. Field medic attached to Camp Bastion on my last tour. Just a kid. Talked about his sister all the time, never knew her name.” His eyes dropped to the floor. Lauren …" he whispered to himself.

Neither Sherlock nor Lestrade said a word for the next half a minute, both just watching the myriad of emotions playing across John's face before it settled on overwhelming guilt.

“Jesus fuck. The bodies. The note. All of this. It’s all been about me from the beginning?" John rubbed a hand roughly across his face, as if trying to scrub the thought from his mind.

“No,” Sherlock came to stand beside him quietly. He lay a hand carefully on John's shoulder. “It’s about me.”

John didn't look even slightly convinced.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “I, uh, know you are not going to be keen Sherlock, but I’d like to put a detail on your place.”

Sherlock was far too concerned about John at that point of time to even register that he should be put out at Lestrade’s suggested invasion of their privacy, so he cursorily agreed. “Fine, yes, whatever.”

“... and your phone, Sherlock,” Lestrade continued. “Can I borrow it to see what we can find out about the messages you received?”

Not taking his eyes off John, he fished the phone out of his trouser pocket and placed it in Lestrade's outstretched hand.

“I’ll be back with it and anything else I can find out as soon as possible,” Lestrade promised as he made for the door. “Take care ... ," his eyes went to John.

Sherlock nodded.

Once Lestrade had closed the door to the flat behind him, Sherlock steered John, hand still on his shoulder, into his armchair. He left him there and headed to the kitchen to make some tea.

When John's phone started vibrating noisily on the side table, Sherlock didn't need to check it to know that it was Mycroft. He let it ring out.

As he waited for the kettle to boil and then cool, he considered John, now sitting in his chair, his head in his hands, unmoving. Sherlock really wasn't sure how he was going to rationalise all this to John, convince him that he bore no culpability for the deaths. He didn’t know how but he was going to try.

For John.

For honest, brave, dependable John

For for trusting, warm, passionate John.

For moral, righteous, true John.

He was going to try.

John looked up when Sherlock entered the room, mugs in hand. Up, but not at him, unfocused. Sherlock set his own mug on the side table and gently eased John’s clasped hands apart, gently tucking John’s mug within them. He settled into his chair across from John and took a slow, careful sip from his mug.

The tea proved to be an effective focal point, and after a few minutes, John's attention came back to the mug and the present moment.

“This is beyond fucked up, Sherlock,” John's voice a strangled whisper.

“I know.”

“How do I … " his voice trailed off. "All those people. Dead. Because of me."

“Dead because of your relationship to me, and my brother,” Sherlock carefully corrected.

“Doesn’t make it any better!” John roared, the pain in his face transformed into anger. 

Sherlock’s “no” in response was small. He was still trying to figure out what the best approach would be. 

John was a practical man.

Sherlock went for practicality.

“They were all suicidal, probably depressed. Statistically speaking they they probably would have killed themselves at some point anyway.”

“How probable?”

“Ahhh."

“How probable is it that they would have anyway?” 

John wanted something definitive, something to hold on to, but Sherlock couldn't give it to him.

“I don’t know."

John's face fell back into pain and his chin slumped to his chest.

_ This. This is what he had been trying to protect John from since the beginning and now what he had so spectacularly failed at. _

They sat there in silence, until most of the tea in their mugs had been drunk and the unconsumed remnants had gone stone cold. Sometime during that time, Sherlock had gotten up to stoke the fire. Not to a roar, he would have needed to fetch more coal to truly warm the place, but he was loathe to leave John's side.

John’s words, after so much silence, startled him. “You knew.”

Sherlock sat with it before replying. “Suspected.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” 

Sherlock flinched at the accusation in John's tone. 

John sighed then pushed himself out of his chair and headed silently up to the stairs to his old room.

Sherlock watched him leave.


	40. Clear. Safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning Notes:
> 
> Music for Chapter 40 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Way Down We Go
> 
> KALEO • A/B
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v96wkt38EU8 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0y1QJc3SJVPKJ1OvFmFqe6 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ John _

 

_Clear and safe._

 

John knew the actions by heart, could do them, had done them, blindfolded.

 

_Remove magazine._

_Check magazine._

_Rotate takedown lever._

_Push down slide catch lever._

_Remove barrel and slide assembly from frame._

_Remove recoil spring and guide rod._

 

Stripped down, he’d always been struck by the innocuity of the Sig; a child’s toy fresh out of the box, waiting to be assembled. Not so innocuous though, that he didn't always make sure the ammunition was locked away in the safe first.

The brutalist metal parts spread themselves out on the desk in front of him, in front of the window letting in the barest amount of overcast grey light, the few hours since waking having done little more to illuminate the mid-morning sky. Alongside the metal, the tools of the cleaning kit sit, waiting for his attention.

 

_Nylon brush. “Dry” cloth. “Wet” cloth. Bore brush. Gun oil._

 

Barely used; he can’t shoot it at a public range, doesn’t have clearance for a military range and won’t risk asking to use the Met’s facilities, lest they enquire absence of licence for his weapon.

 

_Wipe down slide. Wipe exterior of barrel._

 

The cloth came away clean in his hand. No unburnt powder, no carbon residue, no built up dirt.

Clean.

 

_Feed bore brush in, pull through._

_Place dry cloth over brush, repeat._

_Turn dry cloth inside out,repeat again._

 

Nothing.

 

_Wipe down recoil spring guide and recoil spring._

_Move on to frame: locking insert, rails on both sides, locking block, exposed trigger mechanism._

 

Still nothing.

He set it all aside.

Small but sure hands, fingers splayed widely on the desk. John bowed his head and let his eyes slide shut, breathing in the stillness of the room, the flat, silent. Sherlock had either gone out or he was walking around on eggshells on the floor below - considerately sneaking round in order not to disturb him.

His fingertips arched into the weathered wooden surface.

He didn’t need to be handled with kid gloves for god sake!

Two people dead, probably the third too because of him, because of a chance meeting in a pub with a goddamn psychopath. No, not chance - everything set in motion by Mycroft (bloody Mycroft!) years ago …

Fate then. Well not quite fate, but predetermination.

If he hadn’t been looking for a flatmate, hadn't found the most extraordinarily brilliant one in that lab at Barts one and a half years ago, would this all still be happening without him? Would the game still be on? Of course it would be. His ego isn’t so big that he can’t recognise that if Moriarty couldn't target him to get at Sherlock then he’d simply find someone else.

John opened his eyes and stubbornly forced his chin up. It had started to rain, delicately, against the cloudy pane of glass in front of him, tiny splodges distorting the view.

He reached for the oil.

Cleaning was a necessity. The ritual of lubrication, his therapy. Deft, nimble fingers in the oil on the barrel, spread it over the hood, the inside of the slide and the hammer rail. Thin, slippery, even. The recoil spring guide too.

He paid particular attention to the rails on the frame and ran a bead of oil right down both sides. Putting the slide on, he locked it to the rear, flipped up the takedown lever and then moved the slide back and forth. Back and forth, the tawny oil spreading, moving freely within.

The low viscosity oil dripped out along the sides. Taking the second cloth, he wiped off the excess and spread the oil around the slide and the outside of the frame. None on the trigger though.

He set the frame aside.

Pushing in on the side and sliding the base plate off the magazine, he captured the magazine spring and the follower neatly in his left palm. Taking the now oily rag, he wiped down the exterior of the magazine tube, coating it in a thin layer of oil then pushed it through the center of the magazine and pulled it right through, coating the inside as well. Not too much; he didn't want the magazine follower to bind. He wiped down the metal spring, put the follower on the spring, dropped the magazine body back over, compressed the spring and slid the base plate back into position.

Done.

He gripped the assembled gun in his left hand, turning it this way and that. Steel alloy frame, stainless steel slide finished in Nitron for corrosion resistance. Thirty ounces loaded. Proven under fire again and again.

Right.

Safe.

It was clear that Sherlock had been trying to protect him from where this had all gone; clandestine conversations with Mycroft at the airport, Battersea by himself. And he was grateful. Annoyed that Sherlock seemed to think it was necessary, that he needed protecting. But grateful because he knew it was just because Sherlock cared. Fuck, John cared! About Sherlock _and_ about the lives that had been lost to them both, by them both.  

Now what? It wasn't going to stop. He wasn't going to stop. Moriarty had a plan. And it involved them both. And he doubted Mycroft would allow him close enough to put a bullet in the man's head, through his chest.

_Fucking Mycroft and his fucking games!_

John raised the gun to a raindrop on the window pane. Eye level, elbow bent slightly outward, he brought his right hand up to cradle the butt, thumb slightly below, applying equal pressure with both hands and locking his wrist.

He took a deep breath. Then, placing backward pressure on the trigger at the precise moment of exhalation ...

Click.

He dropped the pistol and cocked his head to the side, tracking the path of the raindrop, which, having been joined by another, slithered down to the bottom of the frame under the extra weight.

_Now what?_


	41. "Good" Victim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning Notes:
> 
> Music for Chapter 41 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> The Curse of the Fold
> 
> Shawn James • The Dark & The Light
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RViFRTgC2y4&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUjgwIhno1_tVyqJku86KGG2&index=97&t=0s 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/5EnbxJsYyYwQhEIVEVPbNO 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ Sherlock _

Sherlock had been ...  _ fretting _ , Yes, he conceded gracelessly,  _ fretting _ would be the correct term for the distracted fiddling, the absent minded tidying, the pacing, anticipating and the … washing of dishes.

_ Washing the dishes! _

Sherlock consoled himself with the fact that Mrs Hudson did not appear to be faring much better. Having come upstairs to demand an immediate explanation for the presence of the police car out the front (the officers therein had declined to provide her with a "suitable" reason), her aggrieved eyebrows lowered themselves in concern when Sherlock jerked his head towards the upstairs room and then to the kitchen. Following him in silence, she tsked sympathetically as, seated at the kitchen table, Sherlock had laid out the grim tenants of the situation at hand. Thankfully she didn't ask any questions. Mrs Hudson always knew the right time and place, even of she didn't always adhere to those principles. Instead, she started tidying too. 

_ Not their housekeeper? _

There was however, if it could be said, an unexpected benefit in his attempts to busy himself during John's self imposed exile; the resurrection of all manner of misplaced items. 

Petrified frogs legs _ (so that's where they ended up) _ were discovered in the drawer to the right of the stove, hidden underneath one of Mrs Hudson's well-meaning, but seldom used Christmas gifts - a garishly embroidered tea towel from the West Country. 

Microscopic slides containing the remnants of fifty-two variants of single-celled green algae revealed themselves in the space between the fridge and the wall. The existence of said algae had proven invaluable in determining the exact body of water the enthusiastic brown labrador had dragged the decaying femur from. A fine specimen, (the lab, not the femur), "Cocoa” had, when they had arrived on scene, flopped herself down and waved all four of her web-toed feet in the air in an attempt to engender a belly rub, which of course Sherlock was obliged to provide. He had taken up a seat next to the wriggly animal on the dew-wet grass with no regard for the condition of his bespoke trousers, both the dog and John gracing him with a similarly dopey grin. 

And then there was the random assortment of carpal bones stuffed in a shoebox under the couch.  _ What were those for again? Oh yes, _ Sherlock remembered, as he nudged the box back under again with his socked foot. Mrs Hudson paused in her dusting to glare at his toes and the disappearing box. He ignored her and continued to feign oblivion until a creak from above caused them both to cease their activities.

"Muffins should be done by now," Mrs Hudson muttered to herself as she brushed the palms of her weathered hands down the front of her apron and excused herself from the flat, offering an encouraging smile to John, who had appeared at the top of the stairs.

In the middle of the room, his fingers now splayed on his hips, pulling his white shirt tight across his chest, Sherlock waited.

John’s brows furrowed as he took in the newly acquired neatness of the room from where he had paused, halfway down. The lines around his face and mouth were etched deeper, wearier, and his eyes held a heaviness, but his jaw and shoulders were determinedly set. John jutted his chin forward and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, steadfast.

“Right. Let’s get on with it then.” 

_ Good, good, this was good, forward motion, he could work with this - the absence of John’s input in his world, he could not. _

Sherlock launched into it. “Save the texts, which I doubt Lestrade's people will be able to extract anything meaningful from, we don’t have any direct evidence linking Moriarty to the murders. So what we need to do is determine who the next victim is going to be, and establish the trail of evidence going forward."

"You want me to … go through all the people I might know, that I might have met?" John descended the final stair and took a few paces towards Sherlock. 

It wasn't like John had very many close personal friends, in that regard he was more like Sherlock, but throughout his tours it was likely that he had crossed paths with hundreds if not thousands of soldiers and then there were the numerous medical students he would have encountered in his studies.  

"No, no, far too many," Sherlock dismissed. "In any case, it was only the similarity to your name that made the first victim a target. "Lestrade said that he frequented chat rooms. Chances are that’s where Moriarty's does his hunting. That’s where we need to focus our efforts.”

“I’ll get my laptop." John declared and headed down the hallway to their bedroom.

With John's reappearance, the razor sharp edges of Sherlock’s worry were starting to dull, and Sherlock’s mind turned to how they ended up in this mess and, of course, to his brother. He fired off a text on John’s phone, his still being in the custody of Lestrade.

_ Do not come here. SH _

Then one to Lestrade.

_ Which chat rooms? SH _

 

_ John _

In the process of retrieving his laptop, John had taken a moment to use the loo and splash some cold water on his face. It didn't seem to help with the wrinkles, ( _ so this is what we are doing now, _ he mused as he considered the “just this side of middle-aged” image that stared back at him), but it did serve to ground his resolve. Given a clear way forward, something had clicked in John's brain, and the wavering that had been going on his mind and echoing in his eyes fell away, leaving both keenly focused.  Laptop in hand, John emerged from the bedroom resolute.

Seated across from Sherlock at the kitchen table, a surface so small that their knees couldn't help but touch in the middle, John gave Sherlock a curt nod of thanks. A moment later, his phone rang - Lestrade. Mobile wedged against his shoulder, John gestured to Sherlock to pass him a pad of paper and proceeded to jot down the information the Detective Inspector relayed.

"You'll see that the Sky Garden victim visited a few of the same chat rooms as the leech victim," Lestrade offered. "Still waiting on Battersea. I'll give you a call when I have more."

"Thanks Greg.” John hung up and turned to Sherlock. "OK, so how do we find them?"

"The same way Moriarty did.”

John cocked his head, encouraging Sherlock to elaborate.

“Bundy claimed he could tell a “good” victim simply from the way she walked - with 30 confessed victims, the true total unconfirmed, it seems he had a talent for it. And it is possible to replicate that claim … only experimentally of course," Sherlock clarified quickly, noting John's faintly appalled expression. "There's no physicality to observe in a chatroom, so for Moriarty it would have had to have been something about the words, the way the victims wrote. Patterning of speech, implied intonation - lost, but looking - susceptible to suggestion. Something that made them  _ good _ . He would have spent a while observing them, he may have even interacted with them in the general chats, but he would have developed a relationship in which direct messaging was a rapid but natural progression."

John nodded.

"I'll take Sky Garden,” Sherlock directed. “You take the leech victim." 

John knew that Sherlock was deliberately placing distance between John and the more intimate of his associations with the victims and he was grateful. This, reentering the realm of psychological vulnerability laid bare, was going to be difficult enough. 

John remembered tentatively checking in on a chatroom sometime in the beginning, just after he had returned from Afghanistan. Ella posited that talking to others who were going through what he was would help. He had never felt much like doing it in person and even this "chatting" thing hadn’t been for him, even hidden behind a screen, anonymous. As he scanned the countless threads of conversations in front of him, broken snatches of words seemed to call him out ...

_ … unsafe … the smell, I just can't get the smell out … I woke up sweating again …  so tired … can't talk to anyone … numb … alcohol helps … pain ... _

… God, if Sherlock hadn’t come along in his life when he did … He shook his head to clear his straying thoughts. 

_ Focus _

Jon Wasson, the leech victim, had been "chatting" for over a year. The inactive threads had disappeared, but the more recent, his last ones were still there. His words … tentative but … hopeful.

And the users he interacted with; supportive, helpful. If one of them was Moriarty, it was impossible to tell which one. 

John searched through all the threads, followed users through the progression of their conversations and their unravelling lives. Some seemed resigned to their illnesses, their injuries, their depressions and to their fate, rather like he himself had been. But there were others who vacillated between hope and despair.

_ So many … too many. _

Sherlock seemed to be experiencing the same in his explorations. Snatches of mumbled complaints drifted across the table to John, increasing in frequency as the hours went by. The sheer volume of data was simply too large even for the computational power of a genius' mind.

At one point Mrs Hudson had ventured back upstairs to pop a prepared casserole in the fridge. "Leftovers," was the excuse she offered. "Shame to let it go to waste. An hour at 150 should do it." 

Sherlock stood and gave her a kiss on the cheek and she left them to it again.


	42. Dead Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning Notes:
> 
> Music for Chapter 42 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> Through the Valley
> 
> Shawn James • Shadows
> 
> On YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNDoWkG1FDs 
> 
> On Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2MM8qDOkfV1natcOHC5kER?si=4ziS7ArTT7y-ko7HqaJpZg 
> 
> Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw   

_ Sherlock _

At some point, long past sunset, stymied by the sheer volume of data, and frustrated by his inability to discern any pattern within it, Sherlock had retreated into the corridors of his Mind Palace. Usually the pathways that met him there were straight, or at least the sightlines were clear, defined angles, facts able to be spun on axes, data able to be examined in multiple dimensions, blown out or up, discarded or saved at will. These images though, the images he was accessing in this case, seemed to spread out like peripheral nervous system pulses, twisting, sinewy and quicksilver, gone as quickly as they had appeared. The crystalline structures he was used to encountering, succinct and pure, had given way to amorphous  wisps ; pathways of stone leading to gravestones in grey, leeches swimming with choreographed ease between lyrics. His extrapolations were tenuous at best, seemingly just out of reach, disappearing into quicksand. But there was a zeitgeist that appeared to move with him as he passed through each room. Something, one thing amidst the gossamer strands and filaments that kept repeating. He swept everything else out of his view and focused until the words became clearer.

_ … a dead man’s eyes and a dead man's money. _

His eyes snapped open to find John in the same position he had left him, albeit now slightly more hunched over his laptop, in his armchair.

"A dead man’s money.”

John, while startled at the suddenness of the question in the absence of all context and conversation for the past few hours, surprisingly _ (or not so surprisingly - this was John, conductor of light after all) _ managed an intelligible response. “What? What the man at the hunt said?”

"Yes. The phrase. What is it?" Sherlock insisted, the answer seemingly imperative.

"It’s Lazarus," John offered.

Sherlock was unconvinced, and truth be told, more than a little disappointed. Evidently it showed.

"Lazarus, from the Bible … ?" John prompted after a moment, encouragingly if not somewhat annoyingly.

"Yes  _ John _ , I am familiar with Lazarus and the — " Sherlock made exaggerated quotation marks with his fingers in the air " _ miracle _ , of the man who was dead for four whole days before being,  _ amazingly _ , brought back to life."

John's resultant huff served  to push Sherlock further.

_ "Seriously _ John, surely  _ you  _ must  be aware of just how easy it to fake one's death, or the death of another? At its simplest, pressure under the armpit to diminish the radial pulse. At it's more sophisticated, pentobarbital or thiopental to medically induce a coma. Fake blood, real mourners. No such thing as a miracle, John, just magic tricks."

"Yes  _ doctor, _ thank you," John gritted his teeth. "But I wasn't actually referring to  _ that _ Lazarus."

And that finally caused Sherlock to pause, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on John. "There was more than one?"

"Don't you remember anything from your religious education classes?"

"Irrelevant, deleted it," Sherlock dismissed the question.

John gave him a quizzical look.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to huff. “The scientific impossibility of it all. I mean it’s just not physically possible for a reduction in  PH to occur in a solution without the introduction of an appropriate acid. Which, I might add, I spent the better part of an hour attempting to explain in great detail to no avail and quite frankly to absolutely no appreciation ...”

"Ah yes,  _ water into wine _ …"

“… and then there  _ may _ have been a slight incident involving a Mycobacterium leprae culture …”

“Leprosy? Where the hell did you ...? You know what, never mind.”

“ … anyway, somewhere along the line … yes, probably about there,” Sherlock conceded, “it was  _ suggested _ that I find a more  _ appropriate _ outlet for my enthusiasm and that my absence from class would not be terribly missed. I spent the time in the lab instead.”

“Yes, that would probably do it," John’s face broke out into a wide grin no doubt imagining the tenacious curly haired menace that a younger Sherlock would have posed. "Not irrelevant now though, clearly."

Sherlock waved him on impatiently.

"Lazarus," John started, "the  _ other _ Lazarus, was the beggar outside the gates of the rich man's house - the rich man who never parted with a single coin to help Lazarus. When they both met their end, Lazarus ended up with father Abraham and the rich man in hades, a fate the rich man discovered he was unable to buy his way out of. He tried to convince father Abraham to send Lazarus as a messenger to his brothers to save them, but father Abraham told him that if they did not listen to the prophets in the land of the living, they would not be convinced by someone risen from the dead."

“Risen from the dead …” Sherlock brows furrowed in consideration. 

_ Interesting. _

"No, no, you're missing the point,” John protested. The point is that, well … at a certain point, when you get to a certain place, it doesn't matter what you have, nothing you've got is going to save you.”

"No John," Sherlock assured, "I never miss the point."

 

_ John _

“Actually …” John was about to make mention of the various times that Sherlock, magnificent genius of a man not notwithstanding, had indeed missed the point, when a sudden rap on the flat door interrupted him. John looked at the watch on his wrist  - ..  _ ten past nine … a _ nd cocked his head to the side at Sherlock in wary question.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock confirmed unenthused as he crossed the room to let his brother in. 

The door open, Mycroft remained on the threshold, his umbrella in one hand, Sherlock's phone in the other. Sherlock turned on his heel providing Mycroft with a view of his retreating form and called back over his shoulder. “Running Lestrade's errands now?” 

He sat back down in his chair, keeping his eyes on John, who was studying the exchange carefully. “So I gather the Detective Inspector filled you in on the extent of the damage your meddling has caused?”

“Perhaps it would be best to have this conversation in private, Sherlock?” Mycroft stiffly suggested from his position by the door.

“John stays,” Sherlock dismissed , keeping his eyes on John. 

John’s mouth twitched in a smile, and he raised his eyebrows in challenge to Mycroft who ignored him.

“Yes, but perhaps ...” Mycroft started.

“He stays,” Sherlock growled, his patience with his brother clearly already strained.

Realising that he would not be able to resolve this impasse, Mycroft finally moved inside the flat, shutting the door behind him. It aggravated John  no end that whenever Mycroft deigned to grace them with his presence at the flat, he acted as if  _ he  _ were the one holding court in the middle of  _ their  _ living room. John therefore harboured a certain sense of satisfaction at the current scene in which Mycroft looked more like a prisoner having been hauled before a court  marshal .

Mycroft sniffed a breath. And then another.

Finally he spoke. ”It appears that I may have …  _ misjudged  _ a few elements of the situation.”

Sherlock finally drew his gaze away from John to his brother. "Care to repeat that, for posterity?"

Mycroft stood, silent.

“Take Moriarty out,” Sherlock directed.

Mycroft’s response, though slower, was just as definitive. "I can't do that."

Sherlock stared him down.

"We ..." Mycroft cleared his throat, " … I … need him."

"More than you need me?" Sherlock's tone was ice cold. "More than I need John?"

Mycroft didn't say a word.

Sherlock's  face and voice  were impassive. "You may leave now."

Mycroft stood there for a few seconds, looking like he wanted to say something more before considering better of it and heading for the door. As he rested his hand on  the handle of the door, he paused, turning back towards them. "Sherlock, Dr Watson. Please do know that I am,” he lifted his chin up, “... very sorry.”

At that moment, Sherlock’s phone, uncharacteristically forgotten by Mycroft in his hand, pinged loudly with a notification. Sherlock stood up slowly and walked the few steps towards his brother with his right hand held out in demand.

As Mycroft carefully placed the phone in Sherlock's outstretched palm, it pinged loudly again. Both  men paused for a second as they both regarded the phone. Finally Sherlock took it, and pointedly waited for Mycroft to take his leave. The door closed softly behind Mycroft. Sherlock reclaimed his seat and took a look at the messages, his face impassive before handing his phone to John.

A text message.

 

_ Roses are red _

_ Violets are blue _

_ Do you know me now _

_ Like I know you? _

 

And a video.

Shot from behind, a body, suspended by the neck from the thick leafless branch of a tree. The rope, under some torsional strain, started to uncoil, which resulted in the body turning to face the camera.

The old man from the hunt.

The rest of the old man’s words came back to John  _ … "less to lose than most, and even less time to live" …  _ and the unwelcome thought crossed his mind …

_ Were they all now dead men? _


	43. Sweet. Proper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 43 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Lullaby**  
>  **Lord Huron • Lonesome Dreams**  
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_LijO7yOfU) [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/4ILXS3iMLcSgRZ5fs7SPbF)  
> 

[Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

Sherlock took the Talisker down from the cabinet with one hand and hooked the fingers of his other into a couple of tumblers from the shelf below. He set the two cut crystal glasses down on the mantelpiece above the hearth and after filling them both, handed one to John and held the other up in mock salute.

“Dulce et decorum est?”

No. There was absolutely nothing _sweet_ or _proper_ about dying for one’s country. John knew that from years on the front line, months in Camp Bastion and all the time spent piecing together bodies in the improvised field medical stations in between. War, as far as he had borne witness, was nothing but blood, and dust.

“No, it's not.”

“No, it's not,” Sherlock echoed with a grimace as he lifted the glass to his lips. “But it is what it is.”

They sat for a while in the quiet of their own thoughts, the rain outside picking up to beat a steady staccato against the glass panes. Having given himself in to the nothingness, John was then a little startled to look up at one point and find Sherlock studying him intently.

“You've been to war,” Sherlock prompted. “Did Owen have it right or was Horace? Are we to quiver in horror at the battle, or rejoice in its glory?"

“There’s no glory in war," John shook his head. "Just pain and dying and death. At least, that's what I found.”

“Then … why?” Sherlock gestured to all of it, to nothing.

John considered the question and was a little surprised that it didn't bother him more; the topic of war, the prospect of death. He hadn't talked much about his service, wary perhaps of inadvertently summoning the demons that had plagued his dreams, and his life, before Baker Street. Sherlock had intuitively known not to ask, and John had been grateful for the space. But now, with some distance, a bit more perspective and being symptom-free for the last year, it didn't seem to bother him. Familiar territory, he reasoned. He was, after all, and forever would be, a soldier. Perhaps the demons had been banished forever.

_As for why?_

"Because we can,” he answered, finding his voice steady and sure.

The silence stretched between them again while Sherlock continued to study John, seemingly waiting for him to continue.

_What more could he offer?_

John watched the amber liquid swirl around the bottom of his glass, agitated by a flick of his wrist, before looking up again.

“Did I ever tell you why I signed up?"

Sherlock gave him "the look".  the look he always gave the source of a difficult problem upon first appraisal; eyes narrowed deducingly, wrinkles forming on the bridge of his nose. And then drew in a breath.

"With a middle-class background that wouldn't have put you in a position to pay off tuition fees outright, you would have had to apply for a student loan. Graduating and faced with double shifts where you only saw the inside of a hospital on graveyard shifts and saddled with a debt that would have taken you over a decade to work off, the idea of a life of excitement serving Queen and country along with the "golden hello" to clear your debts would have seemed quite appealing," Sherlock pronounced before smirking. "And ... what do the good girls like even more than a doctor, but … a soldier."

"It's a sailor, actually," John's smile broadened into a wide grin, "but well, yes, to all of the above, you annoyingly brilliant git."

He shouldn't still be as amazed at Sherlock’s skills after all this time, but amazed he still was.

"But, it wasn't just the money, or the excitement … or," John paused, "the sex - though admittedly that was quite good. It was also a time in my life that I felt that if I could, I should."

"You do have a strong moral sense of duty," Sherlock agreed thoughtfully.

"As do you."

And with that he seemed to lose Sherlock, as the man just blinked, and blinked again.

Whilst Sherlock posited himself as only being in The Game for the resultant high of solving the puzzle, the thrill of cracking the case, John knew differently. John knew Sherlock believed that all that was necessary for evil to prevail was for good men to do nothing. What John wasn't so sure of, was whether Sherlock realised that he himself was one of those good men.

Now assessing the man in front of him; tired, the lack of sleep, John saw that the strain of worry and frustration was starting to take its toll - there was a stiffness in his spine and a stutter to the usual fluidity of his movements. And while John knew they could both probably keep going for another forty-eight hours or so, he had had quite enough of dancing like a puppet on Moriarty's string for one day.

“Enough.” John’s voice was a gentle command causing the blinking to cease. He placed his tumbler on the side table. “Enough tonight. You're exhausted and I’m done-in. We need sleep.”

Sherlock made as if to contest John's assertion, but apparently thought better of it. He gave a slight nod and set his empty tumbler down too.

 

_Sherlock_

Stripping down to his pants and hanging his suit in the wardrobe, Sherlock wondered what it was that he had done to deserve this extraordinary man in his life. John, who not only saw him at his worst and was able to ride out the maelstrom of his black moods and tantrums, but who also saw in him something worth having.

Behind him, Sherlock heard John divesting himself of his own clothing, tossing his jeans and jumper over the arm of the chair and his shirt in the laundry basket.

This, the simple domesticity of shared sleeping arrangements. More comfortable in each other’s space than Sherlock had ever been in his own, on his own. It was extraordinary. And he pondered John’s words.

_As do you._

It was nothing that Sherlock had factored into the equation of his raison d'être. But declared as assuredly as John had just done, he wondered...

A sense of duty, to queen and country, was something Mycroft had arrived with, straight out of the womb. Not something that Sherlock cared about, one way or the other. And Mycroft had dedicated himself at an early age to the ranks of the civil service to honor that calling. A less obvious commitment than shouldering a rifle, perhaps, but with the same deadly effect. Sherlock had always taken it for granted that measured against a civil servant like Mycroft, or a soldier like John, he would come up lacking in the "duty" department.

_So where had that comment come from then?_

“Stop thinking,” he felt John smile softly into his shoulder as strong, muscular arms wrapped around his waist from behind, John's naked torso pressed warmly along the lines of his back.

“You know it’s not that easy for me to just turn it all off,” Sherlock grumbled, albeit halfheartedly, titling his head back to rest his mouth against John's carotid artery.

“I know,” John agreed, the words humming against Sherlock's lips, “but let me see what I can do to give you a bit of a rest tonight.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, his lungs filling with air and his groin warming. He must have done something right.


	44. Just Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 44 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Hunger**  
>  **Ross Copperman • Hunger**  
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIZOkkXLh3s) [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/7k9GuJYLp2AzqokyEdwEw2)

[Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

John stroked his hands up the firm plains of Sherlock's chest, and back down again, feeling the fine hairs shift beneath his fingers as his chest, pressed to the smooth expanse of Sherlock's chest, moved with the expansion and contraction of his lungs.

How did he get so lucky?

Beautiful, flawless alabaster skin over lean muscle and flesh. Such a carefully elusive heart and a shimmeringly brilliant mind. But beneath it all, beneath the bespoke suits, the acerbic tongue and the impatience with the idiocy of the world, simply and overwhelmingly, a man who loved him.

Now, kneeling astride the slim hips, pushing back the riot of curls and running his thumbs over the sharply rendered cheekbones, John smiled to himself as he felt Sherlock's whirring thoughts start to slow.

"You. Me. Just us," John whispered as he lowered his torso to nuzzle alongside the crease of Sherlock's nose before sliding his lips upon his.

The crescendo of rain outside had died back down to a slow drizzle allowing him to hear, in the darkness of the room, and behind closed eyelids, their shared even breaths. John swirled his tongue along the inside of Sherlock's top lip causing him to shiver and gooseflesh to appear on the chest that pressed into his.

For a man who was always so impossibly reserved in the presence of others, John always marvelled at the responses he could elicit from him when he was like this. The almost purring sounds he made when John’s fingers skated through his hair, along his scalp. The sharp intakes of breath as John gently dragged his teeth over peaked nipples and the hum of pleasure when John’s mouth, continuing down over his pelvic bone, and nuzzled into his groin.

"I want to be inside you, can I be inside you?"

Sharp, darkened eyes met John’s in the gloom.

"Please."

And for a man who never said please any other time, Sherlock said it an awful lot at times like this. John quite liked hearing it.

He pushed himself downwards over Sherlocks lithe frame until he was kneeling between his parted legs, Sherlocks feet firmly planted on the bed, knees spread wide.

He stretched across the bed, fumbling in the nightstand for the tube of lube, Sherlock tracking his every movement. Pushing himself back into position, John poured some into the palm of his right hand, and tossing the bottle aside somewhere into the folds of pushed down sheets at his feet, started to warm it in his palms.

He liked the darkness, the gloom. Lights on was just as good, but this way, so much depended on a gentle touch and carefully exploring fingers, tracking their way up the inside of thighs to the soft flesh between.

Sherlock twisted impatiently in front of him, trying to press himself more firmly into the touch touch, bending his knees to raise his hips. Placing his right hand on Sherlock's hip, John bent his head to nuzzle the thatch of dark curls surrounding Sherlocks already very interested cock. More than half hard, John nosed it upwards, licking a stripe and feeling it fill around his tongue.

John was already there himself and quite intently trying to hold off giving himself a couple of very eager pulls just to tide himself over.

A stream of _yeses_ and _ahhs_ were being emitted from the top of the bed as John simultaneously licked the head of Sherlock’s cock gently into his mouth and pressed a finger back to circle the puckered flesh, waiting for the moment he felt the muscle relax, and pressing tenderly in.

Even with that slight contact, Sherlock's back arched off the sheets with a deep groan.

"That's it, I've got you," John cooed as he applied a bit more pressure with his tongue and his finger, the latter slipping easily in up to the second knuckle.

Groans became deeper and more urgent as John's cheeks hollowed, drawing his lips up to the tip of Sherlock's cock, tasting the pre-come that had started to appear and adding another finger.

"Now, please," Sherlock was begging.

"Yes, now," John announced, sucking off him with a slurp, "but first."

And with that he swarmed up Sherlock’s body, who reaching for his shoulders, dragged him up and closer while they hungrily kissed, John letting Sherlock chase the flavour of himself on John's tongue.

John lined up his cock, trying not to release Sherlock’s mouth from his own, but after a couple of aborted attempts and a curt mutter of "angle's all wrong" from beneath him, he leaned sideways to fish the other pillow off the bed and wedge it beneath Sherlocks hips, giving himself a sneaky tug or two in the meantime and smiling as he saw Sherlock do the same.

As keyed up as they both now were, this wasn't going to last long, but John didn't mind, and Sherlock who was always and forever an impatient git, didn't look like he was going to mind either.

John batted Sherlock’s hand gently away from his cock and replaced it with his own, commencing a slow languorous pull as he pushed his hips forward, his cock breaching that first ring of tight muscle.

"Okay?" John stilled, waiting for an affirmation.

"Of course it’s bloody okay, move your arse and _fuck me_ John Watson," Sherlock growled, rolling his hips.

What had he been saying about impatient git, John chuckled. He should add impervious bastard to that characterization as well, he thought fondly.  

Slowly at first, despite Sherlock's insistence to the contrary, a long slide in and out as Sherlock shifted his hips beneath him searching for the right angle. John knew they had it when the string of "yeses" became "more's" and "harder's".

John began in earnest, hand gripping the underneath of the long slim thighs encircling his waist, anchoring Sherlock in place as he thrust harder and deeper, Sherlock encouraging more and more.

Releasing one of Sherlock's thighs, John reached for the cock that was bobbing rapidly between them. The deep groan Sherlock uttered when he gave it a firm stroke told him that Sherlock was close.

Sweat had started to drip down John's forehead, between his eyes, and his thighs, stretched as they were from kneeling, were beginning to burn.

Stroking harder and more insistently, Sherlock's broad hands encircled his thighs and the long slim fingers dug into the muscle, John encouraged, "Come on, come for me baby."

And whether it was the increased pace or the verbalised inducement, a couple of thrusts and pulls later, Sherlock's body stiffened as he cried out. Stomach muscles tensed as he came, ribbons of come covering both their chests and dripping in between John's fingers, as he stroked Sherlock's cock through the resultant tremors.

A couple of deep thrusts later and John joined him, his head thrown back, gulping for air as stars of white exploded behind his eyelids and his grip on Sherlock’s softening cock slackened.

After a few seconds, he brought his head back and opened his eyes to find Sherlock had pressed himself up on his elbows and was staring at him intently.

"Brilliant, fucking brilliant," John proclaimed his smile wide, joined by a returning smile from Sherlock.

"Yeah, it'll do," Sherlock pronounced with a smirk, drawing John down to him ignoring the slight wince at the change in angle as he wrapped his arms around him.

After a few moments, John pushed back, allowing his happily spent cock to slip from between Sherlocks legs. Rolling to the side he grabbed a bunch of tissues from the nightstand and perfunctorily cleaned himself before gently seeing to Sherlock. Tossing the tissues aside he reached for Sherlock, drawing him close as their laboured breaths eased.

Before sleep claimed him John heard a couple of words mumbled softly into his chest, that sounded a lot like _love you_. His mind went to the small box he had hidden underneath the vests in the cupboard since Morocco, and the two bands of gold that lay within; soon, when this case was over. And he very much meant to return Sherlock’s whispered sentiment, but sleep overtook him first.


	45. Heard You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 45 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **The Other Side**  
>  **Ruelle • The Other Side**  
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJk7RGtWgP4) [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/69El8bwwxvL6MKfDCwdRHR) 

[Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_Sherlock_

John fell asleep easily, presumably assuming that Sherlock's corresponding stillness meant he would do the same. But when the flood of oxytocin started to ebb, with it went the peace John had brought with him.

In the inky near dark of their bedroom, he could just make out the steady rise and fall of the ex-army doctor’s bare chest, head to the side, star-burst of scarred flesh at his shoulder exposed, unguarded. He envied John’s surety, a soldier’s faith in his skills and his weapon.

Safe.

From physical harm perhaps. A bullet to stop a bullet. A sword to stop a sword. But what to stop a mind? There was no doubt Moriarty was a genius, a brilliant mind. And a brilliant mind required a brilliant mind, not one struggling to catch up. The razor sharp deductions, the nuances that had always shone so brightly for him had become dull since Ireland, since the unmasking of their foe.

He had tried to explain to John once, what it was that he did, where his mind went. The way he could take in an entire scene and all the minutia. The closest he could liken it to, an explanation which still fell colossally short, was the carefully orchestrated yet near-instantaneous sequence of hormonal changes and physiological responses a person experienced in a moment of danger. A heightened sense of sight, taste, smell, feel, all sharper than normal, enabling him to pick up on the smallest of behavioural changes, the slightest twitch of a finger, a barely discernible swallow. Adding to the physical characteristics he observed on display and in turn the verbal cues, word choice, turns of phrase, sentences with hesitations and without. Every tiny detail telling part of a story. The congruities, equally important as the incongruities. Sometimes, if it wasn't coming as easily as he would like, if he was struggling to solve a particularly difficult case, he could force the process through sleep deprivation. While most people experienced an inexorably sluggish pull towards sleep when tired, their concentration slipping, his thoughts spun towards a manic blur, his brain becoming more sensitive and active as the hours passed by. He’d looked into it once, early on, when he was trying to understand why he was so different to all the other children and found some clues in studies of brain conductivity. Epileptics, it was found, were more likely to have seizures the longer they stayed awake, while severely depressed patients with abnormally low brain activity, sometimes improved after skipping sleep. He, it seemed, was neither and both.

But nothing, not retreating to his mind palace nor starving his brain of sleep was helping to summon the brilliance that he currently needed. And the low insistent hum reminding him that there was something that he was missing, wasn’t allowing him to sleep now.

Sometime past midnight, Sherlock slipped out from under the covers, pulled on his dressing gown, and made his way to the kitchen. Pulling up a chair he dialed the number of the only other person, given the circumstances, who would be awake at that hour.

"Jesus Sherlock, do you know what time it is?" the voice on the other end groaned deeply.

"Yes, as do you. Don't try and pretend you were asleep, Lestrade."

Despite lamenting the idiocy of the Yard's people at every given opportunity, Sherlock had a rare admiration for the Detective Inspector. Sherlock knew Lestrade’s dedication, had him currently poured over the case files spread out on his kitchen table, all the while trying desperately to ignore the nicotine cravings that always seem to worsen at night.

They shared both afflictions.

Lestrade sighed. "Out with it."

"The Battersea corpse, where is it?"

"Still not identified or claimed so it was shipped off to Barts for storage, why?"

"I need to take a look at it."

"God, not now?"

Sherlock was about to insist but then glancing at the clock on the wall and back down the hall to their bedroom, conceded, "no, not now, but first thing tomorrow, with all the paperwork."

"Fine. I'll meet you there at nine. I have to do a press conference at eight."

"Thank you. And Gerold ..."

"What …?"

"Try and get some sleep. Otherwise you’re going to look like crap on the telly tomorrow."

Lestrade harrumphed on the other end of the line.

"Night Sherlock, you try and get some rest too."

As it turned out, he must have managed to get a few hours sleep because towards dawn, his mind swam into wakefulness to the sound of John's voice, lying on his back, whispering to the ceiling.

" … and I know you are not big on this … talking thing. God knows I'm not keen on it either... But I'm going to try and say a few things.”

A long pause, then

“... and I don't expect you to say anything in return. Well,” he huffed with slight mirth, “clearly not, because you are asleep … But I want to … I’m going to say it now, all the same.”

A deep breath.

“I understand why. Yes, you frustrate the living hell out of me ninety-nine percent of the time, but I do understand why you do what you do. We can't all be geniuses and I know it must be a burden to know what you know and to be able, to have to, do what you do.”

Another breath.

“ ... but I need you to remember … that you're not alone. You don't have to do any of this alone. The rest of us might not be as brilliant, and I might not get there as fast as you can, but you know I do in the end, and I will always. I want to always be there beside you doing it. I won't leave you, so please don’t leave me. Right, okay, there, said it ... and all to a man who can’t hear me."

A few minutes later he felt John roll over towards him and place an arm softly on top of the duvet around his waist. He waited until the breaths stirring the hairs on the back of his neck started to slow and the arm started to slacken as sleep overtook John again.

He lay there for a while, feeling the weight of John's words and the importance of the declaration and whispered to himself.

_I heard you._


	46. Still Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 46 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Closing In**   
> **Ruelle • Madness**  
>  [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtxO0V4tC6E) [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/19niLYQxeEJPwXsE7OusXR)

[Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

John woke to the sound of drawers opening and closing and the rustle of clothing. Sherlock was never the most considerate of domestic partners in the morning. And when he wanted the other person, namely John, to abandon sleep for whatever endeavour he was focused on, he became even less so.

“What’s on the agenda this morning?” John lifted his head up from the pillow.

“Barts," Sherlock announced, shimmying a pair of dark, slim trousers up over his hips. "I need to look at the Battersea body. Lestrade will meet us there after his press conference.”

“Should I come?”

Sherlock paused in the process of tucking in his shirt tails and regarded him strangely. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Molly ... you know. I still dont think she’s happy about us.”

Sherlock's hand went automatically to his face, fingers ghosting over his left cheek. His eyes became a little lost in the memory and then sharpened again. “I doubt she's going to be happy about it any time soon, do you.”

“No,” John acknowledged, “right.”

_Uncomfortable._

They hadn’t been open about the change in the status of their relationship when they returned from Morocco, but it had become increasingly apparent from the looks they kept getting from Molly each time she saw them together that she had her suspicions. In the end, John had insisted Sherlock tell Molly about them.

Sherlock had pouted for days claiming he didn’t know why John couldn't do it, and John had repeatedly assured him that he very much did know why he was the one who had to do it. The previous Christmas with the flashy dress and the ornament in her hair had been excruciating, not to mention the evisceration she had received before a very uncharacteristic but extremely warranted apology from Sherlock. For all the favours Sherlock had wheedled out of her in the past, and for all the sweet but misguided affection she had proffered in exchange, it had to be done. And it had to be done by Sherlock.

In the end Sherlock had begrudgingly done it, but not before snarkily informing John that he would be patching up any injuries he incurred as a result. John had told him not to be ridiculous, but in the end, there were injuries - to Molly’s pride and to Sherlock’s face. Truth be told, John was exceedingly impressed at the accuracy of the slap, but took care not to mention it to Sherlock as he handed him an ice pack to accompany his epic five-hour sulk on the lounge.

It had been a lot more awkward than usual in Barts ever since and was still so when they entered the lab an hour later. Molly glanced up from her paperwork but just as quickly reverted her eyes, an embarrassed blush spread over her cheeks as she spotted Sherlock.

How’s your day looking Molly?” John smiled encouragingly, trying to make small talk.

“He’s, no, no …” flustered, she stumbled over her words, getting redder by the second. “l mean _it’s_ looking okay. _The day_ is looking okay, uh ...”

She glanced at Sherlock and then back at John looking vaguely terrified, obviously he was just making things worse, so John decided to just shut up and wait. As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long, as a harried Lestrade, in suit and tie, arrived carrying a large file box, a few minutes later.

“Good god I hate journalists," the DI muttered to himself, setting the file box down on a benh. "Why do I always come out of those things feeling like a carcass stripped by vultures? Right then, you’ll be wanting to see …" his voice trailed off as his gaze flickered between the three of them.

He looked to John - _what the hell is going on here?_ and John shot him back a look of _don't ask!_

Lestrade took a breath and turned to Molly. "Molly, you are clearly very busy, but would you mind showing us the body?"

"Yes, yes, of course," she, stood up, fluttering hands smoothing down her lab coat as made her way to the door.

Lestrade shot her a smile but when he turned back to John and Sherlock the look on his face clearly read - _why do you imbeciles have to create so many problems for me?_

John couldn't fault him on that right now. And even Sherlock had the decency to look a bit guilty. But with a purpose, and Lestrade's calming presence, the awkwardness eased a little as they made their way downstairs to the morgue.

"Anything on this one so far Greg?" John queried the DI, walking alongside him.

"No, but it wasn't as public as the other one, so I'm guessing it might take a little more time."

Unlocking the door and entering the brightly lit room, Molly made her way over to one of the steel drawers on the back wall, turned the handle and pulled hard, sliding the tray of black-plastic wrapped body out onto a gurney.

 

_Sherlock_

"Okay, let's take a look at you," Sherlock donned a pair of nitrile gloves and drew down the zipper from the crown of her head to her belly, the plastic falling away at the sides to reveal dark hair that pooled around her shoulders.

She looked no different than she had two nights ago, a paler grey perhaps, but not remarkably so, and Sherlock was so intent in studying the remnants of dried, flecked blood around her lips, that he completely missed the fact that the room around him had gone completely still.

The slight clearing of a throat, drew his attention to Molly and Greg standing on the opposite side of the table, but they weren't looking at him. Both their gazes were drawn to a deathly still John, whose breath was coming in short sniffs through his nose and he stared directly at the corpse's face.

_Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_

_Of course, there would have to be something linking this one to John, he should have been more careful!_

Sherlock looked back and forth between John and the corpse until the look of sheer devastation on John’s face, more so than he had shown at the previous two victims, gave way to realisation.

_Intimate._

_Date?_

_Girlfriend!_

John made to move closer to the table and Lestrade stepped up to divert him.

"Can you help me get some coffee, John?" Although it was more a firm directive than a question.

Sherlock shot him a grateful look.

It didn't look like John had even registered the instruction, but after a moment he nodded slightly, then turned and silently followed Lestrade out of the room.

Molly’s eyes pooled with sympathy. Obviously Lestrade had briefed her on John's connection to the other two victims. It was easy to then put pieces together on this one.

The door closed behind Lestrade and John, and Sherlock reached behind him to pull up a stool, sinking back into it.


	47. Fresh Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 47 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Strong**
> 
> **London Grammar • If You Wait**
> 
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6drfp_3823I)      [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/0QMK2WVjKy3iKdqajgDB1P)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

John’s hands shook as he held the two paper cups Lestrade had placed in them. No lids, the barely-brown vending machine coffee shivered as he fought to hold his fingers steady. Located in the bowels of the building and inaccessible to members of the general public, the hallways leading to the morgue were not a priority for upkeep. Wooden bumpers along the walls, scuffed and scratched thin through years of wear, stretched out behind bags of soiled linen piled high in caged carts. He had to stop thinking so he focused on counting the bags, the blue translucent plastic doing little to hide the bodily fluid-stained, thin cotton sheets within.

Fifty-three bags - that was as far as he had gotten by the time Lestrade had filled and returned with the other two cups.

"You alright if we grab some fresh air?" The DI jerked his head to the stairs.

John nodded. They made their way to the secluded garden nestled away behind the hospital church of St Bartholomew the Lesser and took up a seat together on one of the crimson benches beneath the stained glass arches. Setting the second cup down on the sandstone flagging, John looked up towards the overcast sky. For the first time in seemingly forever (though it had probably only been a week), the sun was trying to make an appearance.

_Linda._

Young, _much_ younger than him, he had met her in rehab. Kind, attentive, she was the first PT aide assigned to him. He had probably not demonstrated the finest of personal or professional judgement in undertaking a sexual relationship with someone in a caregiving role, but then, he had been in no mood to care about ethics and consequences, having recently returned and still trying to process the loss of his army and medical career. It hadn’t lasted long, their relationship - it was never destined to. He had progressed through the program and they had drifted apart, she wisely seeking someone who had more to offer than a physically damaged, emotionally unavailable veteran with no foreseeable future ...

John glanced at Lestrade. The DI seemed lost in thought or maybe it was just a pretense, for his sake. Either way, John was exceedingly grateful for the space and they sat in silence for a while, sipping the god-awful coffee. Time enough for John's hands to finally stop shaking and for the two other cups of coffee to go stone cold. Eventually, John made a move to get up and Lestrade followed, pouring the remainder of the coffee into one of the bricked flower beds and taking the empty cups with him. Lestrade led the way back. To the lab, not the morgue.

They arrived to find Sherlock’s and Molly's heads bent over a bench with the files from Lestrade’s box spread out around them and try as he might, John couldn't resist the pull of the light blue folder from which a couple of crime scene photos poked out. Picking up the folder he steeled himself to open it, grateful that none of the others tried to stop him or asked if he thought he should. If he had been his own patient, he probably would have advised against it. But he wasn't a patient. He was a soldier.

He was prepared for … well, he didn't quite know what, but the images he was greeted with were not overly graphic in nature. Not the mutilated bodies from the field or the unidentifiable corpses from many of their previous cases. The victim, _Linda_ , was … clean, peaceful. Letting out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, John flicked through the images. Tight shots, wide shots, macro photos of abrasions and scuff marks. A few minutes later he closed the file and set it back down again.

_How the fuck did Moriarty know about Linda?_

He only realised that he had actually voiced the thought out loud when Lestrade responded.

“Linda?”

John turned towards him, squaring his shoulders. “Linda Kearney, a PT aide at Headley Court in Surrey. I spent six weeks there after I returned, and then a few months as an outpatient.

“And Linda was a … friend?” Lestrade encouraged carefully.

At exactly the same time as John replied, “Girlfriend.”

“So you were .... “ Lestrade looked apologetic and John felt a certain sense of sympathy for the DI. He was, after all, just doing his job.

“Involved, yes,” John squeezed his eyes tightly shut before opening them again, he really wasn't sure he could discuss this any longer. “Look, sorry ...”

Lestrade waived his apology aside. “Nothing to apologise for, it’s all good.”

John hadn't really looked to Sherlock since he entered the room and as he made to do so now, he wondered what he would find.

 

_Sherlock_

Sherlock was at a loss. Moriarty was succeeding in destroying John before his eyes - his latest blow delivered with clinical precision - and Sherlock seemed incapable of stopping him.

And now, amidst coming to terms with the death of yet another person in his name and embarrassed about having to discuss the nature of his relationship with the victim, John’s main concern seemed to be what Sherlock thought about all this.

What Sherlock thought was that he was failing John, and miserably. He had absolutely no idea about what to say or do to comfort him - not his area at the best of times. But there was one thing that he could do, and that was take the focus off him.

“This is what I need,” Sherlock announced, assuming his oft-played role that the world revolved around him. “I need to go through _all_ the evidence from _all_ the crime scenes again, not just this one,” he gestured vaguely to the files in front of him, his words gaining momentum. “I need _all_ the data from _all_ the chat rooms, I need the toxicology reports, the autopsy reports, the interview notes and the crime scene photos. Everything. I need everything and I need it here, now! Somewhere ... _somewhere_ there is that one piece of evidence linking him to all this!”

"The Moriarty fellow?” Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade and the DI shrugged. Obviously he had shared more about the case with Molly than he had thought.

_Hmm, close relationship. Dating?_ _Irrelevant. Deleted._

Lestrade crossed his arms. “No, Sherlock. You can go to the Yard, but the Yard does not come to you. Chain of custody over the evidence has to be watertight. It stays at The Met.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then marched over to Lestrade, leaning in over him to emphasise his annoyance. “The bodies are here, Lestrade. I need to be able to see the crime scene data and the actual bodies. The links between the two are crucial. I don’t see you being willing to have the bodies moved to the Yard, so the files are going to have to come here.”

“Sherlock … if this means that the evidence will get thrown out of the trial…”

“There won’t be a trial if you don’t catch the murderer. And you have no way of connecting him to it unless you do as I say.”

Lestrade scrubbed his face wearily. “Oh, what the hell. Alright.”

Sherlock glanced over to John. _"You okay?"_ the question unspoken but clearly understood. John graced him with a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Why not go with him?" Sherlock suggested with a nod towards the DI. "You look like the fresh air would do you some good.”

John smiled gratefully and made off after Lestrade to help him retrieve all the other file boxes from the Yard and Molly set herself to the task of scanning the chat rooms for any evidence of Linda. With everyone else set to their tasks, Sherlock stepped out of the lab and placed a call to his brother.

“Moriarty has access to John’s military files, specifically his rehabilitation records. How did that happen?"

The scrape of a tea cup being pushed away across a wooden echoed faintly through the line before Mycroft carefully replied. “I don’t know.”

“I have to say Mycroft, the sheer volume of things you _don't know_ about this situation is beginning to alarm me.” Sherlock's voice trailed off as a couple of staff members walked past him down the corridor.

And in a rare display of vulnerability, Mycroft replied. “It is beginning to alarm me too, brother mine.”

There were a couple of beats of silence and then Mycroft spoke again. “I’ll look into it.”


	48. Final Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 48 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **The Beginning of the End**
> 
> **Klergy, Valerie Broussard • The Beginning of the End**
> 
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfXnoEFbVrU&list=RDLfXnoEFbVrU&start_radio=1&t=57)      [On Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/3IQPXyZk3FeEYsWyCcRUmn)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

_ Sherlock _

By seven in the evening Molly had headed home and by ten John and Lestrade were starting to flag.

Sherlock looked up from the magnifying glass that lay upon one of the stills from the Sky Garden security footage. "Go home Lestrade," he instructed. "And take John with you.” 

"I'm fine," John protested weakly from the other side of the bench, rubbing his hand across his face and looking anything but.

"He’s right, I’ll give you a lift." Greg retrieved his previously abandoned suit jacket from its crumpled pile on the bench. Then he stilled and glanced warily at the mountains of files spread out around the room.

"I'm not going to destroy the evidence," Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "I'll give you a call before I leave so you can send someone to collect it."

John seemed torn between the welcome thought of a few hours of sleep and completing the task. In the end, he couldn't muster the energy to stay.

"Just don't stay here all night, okay?," John came round behind him to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"I won't," Sherlock lied, turning his head towards him and covering John's hand with his. “You okay?” he asked again, this time out loud.

“Not really, but I will be,” John replied giving Sherlock’s shoulder what felt like a reassuring squeeze.

And with one last backward glance from John and an encouraging nod from Sherlock they left, leaving Sherlock with only the company of the slight hum of the fluorescent lights and one thought playing over and over in his head:

_ He had to save John Watson. _

So he got to work.

At one a.m. he paced the lab floor, in precise geometric patterns, replicating the links between all the pieces of evidence.

By two a.m he had covered the bank of morgue drawers, from the floor to the ceiling, in crime scene photographs.

And at three a.m he was picking at the remains of a pink glazed donut (the sole survivor of box procured by Lestrade earlier in the day) while surveying the resulting carnage, photos scattered over every square inch of linoleum flooring.

Why had they not found any evidence? Moriarty couldn't be that clever ...

And then, leaning against one of the benches, the sticky piece of dough held consideringly between thumb and forefinger, the final puzzle piece fell into place.

_ He was that clever! _

Tossing the donut back into the box, and pushing himself off the bench, Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff, exited the lab and proceeded down the darkened corridors to the morgue. Locked, of course; good thing he had a master key. 

Flicking on the centre bank of lights, he set his Belstaff, along with his suit jacket, down on a stool by the door. He hauled the corpse back out again and unzipped the bag, exposing her entire body to the light. Then rolling up his sleeves, Sherlock took a seat in a darkened corner of the room and waited. 

Around two hours later, a key scraped quietly in the lock and the morgue door opened. 

“I was expecting you hours ago,” Sherlock stated.

He couldn't see, but he could feel the eye roll that preceded the visitors response. 

“You know how it is,” a sigh emanated from the doorway. “So many things to do, so many people to kill.”

And with that Moriarty stepped out of the dark and into the room.


	49. Cold Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 49 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Cold Blood**
> 
> **Dave Not Dave • Cold Blood**
> 
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R3uuxFTlx0)      

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_ Sherlock _

Moriarty made his way across the room to the corpse. As he walked the length of the stainless steel table from her feet to her head, he lazily ran an index finger up the chilled grey skin of her shin and over her hipbone before putting it to his lips thoughtfully.

“You know,” he remarked, tilting his head and directing his gaze to Sherlock, “I think this one was the most fun. Although —  tut-tut Sherlock — I am more than a little disappointed that it took you so long to figure it out. You really should have let your dear John in on this one sooner. It would have saved us all a bit of time and effort.” 

The table separating them didn't feel like nearly enough space as Sherlock struggled to control the anger that threatened to weaken the hold on his control. He forced himself to remain seated and maintain the distance.

"Dear John," Moriarty grinned. "Did he like my gifts?"

"If you are trying to romance Doctor Watson," Sherlock responded, his voice as dispassionate as he could muster. "I fear you have misjudged the man completely."

"Romance him? Don't be so obvious, Sherlock. Though, I do wonder what it would be like to fuck him.” He let his eyes widen and his smirk broaden. “A three-some, now that would be something to write home about. Or would you prefer just to watch? Do tell. Like to share?”

Sherlock refused to take the bait.

"Oh, a man of discretion? Our lovely Linda, here," he twirled a finger around a lock of hair at her temple, "not so discreet. Would you like to know how they spent their time …"

"The investment banker?" Sherlock cut him off, redirecting.

"Oh yes," Moriarty followed his lead. "Wasn't that delightful? When I saw him, I just knew I had to have him. Just like it was for you. How very sweet of you, by the way, to take in a stray. Your little pet, saved from doing himself in.” He pulled an exaggerated sad face. “The damaged veteran, invalided home, no job, no hope, just getting the nerve to do the decent thing and put himself out of his misery. If you hadn’t intervened, poor little John would have killed himself. It gave me a whole theme to work around.”

Sherlock kept his jaw clenched. "And the leeches?"

"A personal touch. Something to tickle your fancy. Admit it, would you have been intrigued if it weren’t for that little tweak? You are SO CURIOUS,” he crowed, the sound bouncing off the tiled morgue walls.

"You do have a flair for the overly dramatic," Sherlock dismissed.   


"As do you. Bloodied harpoon on a subway? Research? Really, Sherlock," he chided.

"So what happens now?" Sherlock stood up, his stool scraping slightly on the flooring, and took a step towards the table.

At six foot, Sherlock had at least four inches on Moriarty's shorter frame, but the sharply suited man across the table from him didn't cede an inch of lethality with the difference. 

As soon as Sherlock had realised that he would never find, in the files or on the bodies, the evidence needed to link Moriarty to the murders, he knew he had to find a way to draw it out of him. It was inevitable that Moirarty would turn up sooner or later, he had been getting closer and closer with every day that passed. That he would present Sherlock with the opportunity that night, was a lucky shot in the dark. 

With his phone turned to record in his pocket, the first step would be getting Moriarty to talk. Sherlock had counted on Moriarty's conceit, handiwork on display, to loosen his tongue. So far though, he hadn’t received anything he could work with, just short jabs which had landed annoyingly close to the mark.

Sherlock took a couple of steps to his right and braced his hands on the end of the table at the victim’s feet. Moirarty matched his move to place himself directly behind her head, the angle of the overhead lighting causing the shadows under his eyes to deepen, the rest of his body eaten by the darkness.

Sherlock tried again.

“The people you killed.”

Moriarty's eyes went wide in mock innocence. “Poor souls. Took their own lives, didn't you see?”

“Not sure your parents would have seen it that way.”

“Sweet James and Margaret - lovely people. Not really much to offer the world, though," Moriarty shook his head ruefully.

“Not much to offer you, you mean.”

Moriarty grinned. “That's the thing about fire. It really does expose one’s priorities.”

“And your aunt and uncle. Not priorities either?”

"BORING!” Moriary suddenly screamed, leaning forward on his toes across the end of the table, eyes blankly dark and mouth distortedly wide. “The game is over. I'm not playing anymore Sherlock."

"Oh, yes you are." Sherlock held his ground, unflinching.

Moriarty’s mercurial eyes were a veil of black and then, just as suddenly flickered back to life. He eased back on his heels and his lips slid into a smile. "Okay, maybe I am.” 

He took a step to his right and Sherlock found himself mirroring the step before he had time to correct himself. 

Moriarty tilted his head coquettishly to the side. “Guerin sends his regards by the way.”

“I sincerely doubt that," Sherlock drolled. "The last time I had the  _ pleasure _ of Guerin's company, I watched the remnants of his brain slide down a wall, courtesy of your boyfriend. Handy to have someone in MI6 to do your bidding.”

“Boyfriend?” Moriarty looked particularly amused. “A plaything, a distraction. A pet, just like yours. Your brother gave him to me, expecting to be able to use him to get at me."  He gave a malicious grin. "Turned the tables on him! He's proved  _ most useful. _ The great Mycroft Holmes; he does like to think he is the puppeteer, doesn’t he? Do you like him trying to make you dance to his tune?”

“Whereas you fancy yourself in that role?”

“I  _ am _ pulling the strings, Sherlock. Look at us here, together, having this lovely little rendezvous. All of this made possible by me."

"You could have just dropped by Baker Street for a cup of tea." 

"That’s all very civilised,” Moriarty grinned, “but where's the fun in that?"


	50. Wicked Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for Chapter 50 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3
> 
> **Monster**
> 
> **Willyecho • Monster**
> 
> [On YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoeVeXZkzYE)      

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_ Sherlock _

Their movements to the right around the table had now put them across from each other at the victim’s torso.It was far closer to each other than Sherlock would have liked, but he didn't step back.

“Shall I tell you a story? A story of a great Consulting Detective who kept getting in the way.” Moriarty flung his arms wide. “What do you think happened to that man?"

“I can’t begin to imagine,” Sherlock said dryly. 

“He lost all his little white pebbles on his way into the woods and couldn't find his way back home."

"Fairy tales, children's stories," Sherlock brushed the words aside and leaned in. "And you  _ do  _ remember how that all ended don't you? Because  _ I  _ seem to remember a rather nasty result for the old woman, something about being cooked alive ..." his eyes narrowed on Moriarty.

"True," Moriarty took an exaggerated bow in concession before snapping back upright. "But at what cost? Abandoned by the one you love? Forced to abandon the one you love. The most primal of human fears, and you are so terribly human after all, aren't you ...? But, come now ... let's not squabble like children over a toy we will both lose interest in, eventually."

"People are not toys," Sherlock bit back.

"Oh, come now Sherlock, what interest do they serve, save puzzles to solve, organs to dissect? For both of us they are but a fleeting distraction from the monotony of everyday life."

Sherlock paused. He could not actually object to that characterization, it was after all, exactly as he had described it himself on numerous occasions.

And Moriarty pounced on the faint taste of blood in the water, sing-songing, "You and me, one and the same.”

"I am nothing like you!" Sherlock took a step away and to the right, trying to loosen Moriarty's vice-like grip on his mind.

"Really? Let's see," Moriarty raked his gaze admiringly down and then up the length of Sherlock's body. “Bespoke suits from Spencer Hart, custom made Yves Saint Laurent oxfords. Completely impractical for  _ The Work _ , but you'll never give them up. Your plumage. Admittedly, your style is a little lacking in … artistic flair though. Must be all that public schooling."

"You had the same schooling,” Sherlock countered before he was able to catch himself.

Moriarty grinned and made an imaginary check mark in the air with his forefinger before continuing.

“And then we have the rules that don’t apply to you. Police files in the lab? Broken chains of custody? You’ll never get a conviction like that. Naughty, naughty. But imagine a world without any rules, my world. How high you could soar if your wings weren’t clipped.”

“Order is necessary,” Sherlock waived him off and took another step round.

“Order is a social construct. Sex and death are the only necessities.” 

“What a very convenient world view you have. It's not one I share, I’m afraid.”

“No, you are not afraid. But where would you be without your death, your sex? How much seven percent solution would it take to keep big brain of yours entertained without the presence of all the horrifying things in the world? Or the company of your dear John?” Moriarty challenged. "He's your opiate, but as you know from first hand experience, opiates dull the mind."

By this stage they had circled the table, Moriarty now at the victim’s feet with his back to the door and Sherlock under the light by her head.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Moriarty cajoled, ensnaring the victim’s ankles in his hands and rubbing his thumbs back and forth across her skin. “Where is the gratitude for all I have done for you? Keeping you amused, entertained. Think of how much more fun we could have if we worked together rather than against one another. With your brain and my …”

“Psychopathy?” Sherlock suggested.

“Creativity," Moriarty corrected before musing, "but no, there’s something that keeps you from crossing over isn’t there? Keeps you from slipping under the crime scene tape? The brave, loyal doctor, your trusted pet. He keeps you right.  _ HOW BORING _ . You're not like him, you know. He’ll always stay on the side of the angels, because he is too stupid to know any better. A moral man is a boring man, who lacks the imagination to be more than what society says he should be. You, on the other hand, are something special. You're smart enough to walk around all those boring rules. You just need just one little push, one tiny slide of a needle into your veins and you’ll jump.”

Moirarty pushed himself back, releasing her ankles. He stretched his neck and adjusted his tie.

“Time to jump, Sherlock,” he announced before sweeping out of the room and raising a hand in farewell. “Toodle- ooh.”

Sherlock was still standing in the same spot, catching his breath when his phone, still recording in his pocket, pinged.

Fishing it out, Sherlock scanned the message before turning suddenly and pitching the phone full-force at the tiled wall behind him. The case shattered as it struck but the screen remained largely intact. It came to rest lying face up on the cold floor with the words blazing in the dark through the splintered plastic:

 

_ Roses are red _

_ John’s blood is too _

_ What happens now? _

_ It's all up to you _


	51. Softly Breaking

Music for Chapter 51 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3

Judgement Day -  Stealth • Intro -  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10v_yjE38fw) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/1nmwT930XXGwjccTSqkctl)

Find You - Ruelle • Rival -  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vT-IK2H2StI) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2XGm6QBvarwrvp1pivvhty)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_Sherlock_

He’d been looking for a misstep, a chink in the armour, a crack in the façade, but there was none to be found. 

Moriarty had played a perfect game, and would end up destroying John completely, unless something caused a change. 

Nothing in the files, nothing on the bodies, and despite his considerable efforts to the contrary, nothing on the recording that could be used in evidence.

The clock on the wall showed an hour before dawn. 

His eyes went to the door that had framed Moriarty’s exit and then slid down to the stool next to it, upon which his Belstaff had … _previously_ rested.

Gone.

Moriarty’s sleight of hand; one raised to distract him from the other - demonstrating that he could, and would, take anything he wanted. 

His parthian shot.

Flawless.

Making his way to the door, Sherlock shrugged his suit jacket on before turning to consider the room and the corpse one last time.

Then down the hall he walked, into the softly breaking light. 

 

_John_  

John woke, face down into the pillow, sun streaming in through the windows. 

_Finally,_ he thought as he rolled over with a groan and stretched. 

He couldn't have been bothered to close the curtains last night and he was grateful now, as he wiggled his toes in the warm bands of light criss-crossing the duvet.

_Alone,_ was his second thought as he turned his head to the pillow besides his to find it empty, with no other sound to be heard in the flat. 

_So much for promises …_

He resolved to get up, have a shower, get dressed and have some breakfast _before_ he even thought about tracking down the whereabouts of the lanky git.

He was halfway to the bathroom, only clad in his pants when his phone buzzed from its resting place on the nightstand. Not a text, a phone call.

"Where is he? I'm going to kill him." Lestrade’s voice snarled into his ear.

No need to clarify who the subject of Lestrade's envisaged homicide was. John sighed, looking down to regard his bare toes. "What's he done now?"

"He's buggered off and left all the files out, that’s what!"

"At Barts?" 

"Yes, at Barts. I'm here. The files are here. But he's not!"

"I dunno, Greg," John wandered down the hall to the kitchen, confirming his next words as he went. "He hasn't been home … have you tried his phone?"

"Of course I've tried his bloody …" Lestrade's rant was cut short by someone in the distance calling his name.

"Not now," John heard the DI respond, the phone held away from his ear.

The voice got louder, closer, more cautious. "I think you need to see this, boss ..."

A sense of unease started to burrow its way under John’s skin. "What’s going on, Greg?"

"Sorry John, I’ve gotta go."

"Gre-- " John started, but Lestrade had hung up before he could get his whole name out.

_Sherlock probably got distracted_ , _on the trail of something he had uncovered in the files,_ John assured himself. 

But the tingling in the fingers still wrapped around his phone said otherwise. He tried calling Sherlock's phone. The first time it rang out - no answer. The second time it went straight to voicemail. He tried sending a text, watching the screen intently for a response. Nothing.

"Shit." 

John made his way back to the bedroom for his clothes and headed for Barts, sans shower, sans breakfast, sans Sherlock. 

When he arrived at the lab, he found a number of Lestrade's people busily packing files back into boxes and picking an array of photographs up off the floor. From the doorway he caught the attention of the nearest officer. "Where's Lestrade?" 

"Morgue," the officer jerked his head in an approximation of the direction.

John tried to drown out the inner voice of worry by concentrating on the sound of his footfalls down the stairs. Entering the morgue, his eyebrows narrowed when his eyes lit on the victim's body, out on the table and the figure of Molly hovering worriedly above it. His gaze went next to Lestrade, bent over a table examining something with another officer. And as he walked over towards the table he saw it; a phone with a smashed screen, the same model as Sherlock's. 

"What's going on, Greg?” John repeated his earlier question, the unease now seeming to have taken up permanent residence in his bones.

Lestrade glanced towards John and back down at the table again. "It's Sherlock's."

At the same time the nitrile gloved officer prompted, "we'll need the passcode."

"Why is it here, and smashed?" John asked and then answered the officer's question: "Try 4-7-3-4". He then turned his attention to Lestrade.

"That's what we’re trying to figure out."

The officer punched in the numbers and brought the phone back to life, displaying the last open screen.

"Umm, boss ..." the officer turned the screen, and the four lines of text, towards them:

 

**Roses are red**

**John’s blood is too**

**What happens now?**

**It's all up to you**

 

_Fuck_

John felt Lestrade’s wary gaze on him as he re-read the message a second time.

_Fuck._

"What about this one?” Lestrade gestured to the previous text message, "you seen this?"

 

**Roses are red**

**Violets are blue**

**Do you know me now**

**Like I know you?**

 

"Yeah, he got that one last night."

"Looks like there are voicemails as well," the officer advised.

"Play them," Lestrade instructed and John flinched as he heard his words played back to him.

_"Answer your goddamn phone, Sherlock!"_

_"Where are you? Lestrade is pretty pissed!"_

The two messages before those were from Lestrade, the sentiment along similar lines, albeit with a few more expletives. Lestrade glanced guiltily at John who shrugged knowingly; Sherlock drove them both nuts on a regular basis.

"There's also a recently saved voice file?" The officer prompted.

Lestrade nodded to the officer to play it.

A couple of seconds of distortion and then the sound of Sherlock's deep, rich baritone echoed in the room: _“I was expecting you hours ago."_

And then, that familiar Irish lilt.

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

By the time they made it through the entire recording, there wasn't a sound to be heard. Lestrade and the officer, professionally quiet, and Molly, still on the far side of the room, but obviously having heard everything, still as a stone.

John held his eyes tightly closed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as the sheer volume of thoughts threatened to overwhelm him.

_Moriarty had left. Sherlock had still been there. There wasn't any evidence that Moriarty had done anything … . Sherlock had just taken himself off somewhere after … smashing his own phone? Best case, yes … And worst-case?_  

John refused to consider it.

“That Moriarty?” Lestrade prodded, interrupting what was about to be an emotional avalanche.

John released the grip on his nose and opened his eyes. "Yes."

Lestrade's face appeared to crumple in worry (and perhaps a bit of guilt for the stroppy messages) but there was work to be done and Lestrade got to it, pointing the officer in the direction of the security office with instructions to locate the existence of any and all CCTV footage.

And John had his own mission. As he headed out the door, he passed Molly who seemed on the verge of tears. He flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring look. She nodded back, the words "you have to find him" written across her face.

Pulling out his own phone, he scrolled for a number and tapped out a message.

_We need to talk_

And one came back momentarily.

_Baker Street. One hour._

No, Mycroft wasn’t welcome back in their flat any time soon.

_Speedy's_ , John typed back, and shoved his phone deep in his pocket.


	52. Ask Him

Music for Chapter 53 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3

Bullet With Butterfly Wings \- Tommee Profitt, Sam Tinnesz •  Bullet With Butterfly Wings \-  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9y2zttKaJXc&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUiauRSMryxiApOp3TdAIeVh&index=22&t=0s) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/195zjySgEkkiKMjhslmzLT)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

John arrived at Speedy’s on foot at precisely the same time Mycroft's bespoke brogues stepped out of a dark Bentley and onto the pavement, umbrella in hand despite the sky being a bright clear blue with not a cloud in sight.

_Always with the bloody brolly, like some weird security blanket._ Not for the first time, John wondered, if it actually contained some kind of concealed weapon …

Greeting him with a thin lipped nod, John stood back, allowing Mycroft to enter first and then following him to take a seat at one of the square laminate tables toward the back. 

John waited as Mycroft's dark grey-blue eyes went elsewhere, politely clearing his throat before ordering a pot of tea from an unusually reserved Mr. Chatterjee.

_Mycroft does tend to have that effect on people ..._

John shook his head when asked for his order and then never took his eyes off Mycroft, as the man, tea having appeared, went about taking his time to ensure the resultant beverage was prepared as close to his satisfaction as it was going to get (which,from the look on Mycroft’s face when he lifted the metal pot lid and spotted the tea bag, was clearly not even slightly. 

Finally, stirring and straightening the cup, Mycroft looked up with an air of detached civil servitude. “How can I be of assistance, Doctor Watson?”

“Cut the bullshit, Mycroft, and tell me what's going on.”

"I'm afraid you are going to have to be a little more specific,” Mycroft responded as he regarded his disappointing tea.

“Bit more specific. Bit more _specific_ ? Okay, how about what the _specific_ fuck have you gotten us involved in that has a raving psychopath like Moriarty making house calls on Sherlock at Barts, trying to recruit him? And why the fuck is Sherlock now nowhere to be found? If you don't tell me right now, I swear to God my next stop will be The Times and then we can see how _specific_ they can be with their questions ..."

John had started off low, but by the end he was practically shouting the less-than-a-foot distance across the table at distinctly ill-at-ease looking Mycroft.

_Objective achieved._

“Thank you, I believe that you have made your point,” Mycroft cut in before John’s rant could come to an end. "Perhaps it would be of assistance though, if you calmed down."

John gave him a dangerous smile and jerked his head sharply, directing him to continue.

Mycroft's gaze dropped to his tea again, and then lifted his head to the front corner of the cafe. John turned, following Mycroft's line of sight to the small television hanging from the roof. Muted, the channel was turned to BBC One's coverage of the anti-Brexit protests occurring outside Parliament.

“While you have been … amusing yourself _playing_ detective with my little brother, you may have missed certain signs that the empire is faltering. Distracted, our enemies have grown bolder … and our allies,” the screen changed to an image of the previous day’s protest at the US President’s state visit to London and a giant orange balloon baby floating about the crowd, and Mycroft grimaced, “are not what they used to be.” 

If the pause after Mycroft spoke was for dramatic effect, it was completely lost on John. “Frankly Mycroft, I don’t give a flying fuck what _your_ empire is or is not doing. I want to know where Sherlock is.”

Mycroft drew his gaze back to John. “Why don't you ask him, then,” he suggested imperviously.

The precisely aimed barb found its target easily in an already wound up John who bit out, “I would if I knew where he was or how to get in contact with him!”

The silence hung between them for a couple of moments before Mycroft raised a paper napkin to the corner of his mouth before setting it aside.

“How well do you _actually_ know my brother Doctor Watson?” His lip curled distastefully. “You fancy this _relationship_ of yours has changed him in some way? Made him a different man, a _good_ man?” What if I were to tell you …that on one occasion, Sherlock left DI Lestrade at the mercy of a criminal gang because he was simply intent on solving the little puzzle of who was pulling the strings. He only bothered to notify anyone of the Lestrade's location _after_ he had chased down the man at the top. The Detective Inspector had been tied up, beaten unconscious and left for dead; it took him weeks to recover. Sherlock simply does not consider the consequences of his actions, nor their implications for those with whom he works…or lives, in your case." 

“I’d say that was a long time ago,” John was staunch, resolute.

Mycroft sniffed. “Don't fool yourself into thinking that you are his white knight, or that knowing you has somehow changed my brother's fundamental character. Sherlock will always do what he needs to do, regardless of the impact on those around him, you and anyone else." 

Mycroft pushed his cup away from him, having consumed none of it and stood, clearly considering the conversation over. He paused as he pushed his chair back under the table.

“Consider this, Doctor Watson, if Sherlock truly wanted to be found by you, he would let you find him. And whatever happens in the meantime … I would caution you against doing anything foolish."

John, silent, just watched him leave, running the the pads of his fingers over the textured table top, tracing the bumps and grooves, trying to put his thoughts into some semblance of order. But the frustration any worry seemed to have worked themselves into one continuous feedback loop. In the end, he headed upstairs to the flat, but not before encountering Mrs Hudson on the landing.

“This business with Sherlock …” she started.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” he tried to move around her but she was directly in his path.

“ … horrible business, all this police attention. Reminds me of the time when everything finally caught up with my husband,” she continued, completely oblivious to John’s attempts to avoid her and the conversation. “Though,” she mused, “he really did have all that coming to him. Still, unpleasant business for all of those around him. Now do you don’t think that Sherlock …”

_Oh God, He really couldn't do this right now._

John turned and fled back down the stairs, calling over his shoulder with utterly no conviction as he went, “I’m sure it’s going to be fine, Mrs Hudson.”


	53. He Knew

Music for Chapter 53 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3

Affection - Amber Run • Affection -  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iO30pGYn_14&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUiauRSMryxiApOp3TdAIeVh&index=19) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/722YgK1QgMHyu9RVy7iWYM)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_John_

“We finally located the security footage from the main entrance of Barts. But it only shows one person coming and going, not two …"

After fleeing Baker Street, John had spent the better part of the afternoon paying visit to the various locations he knew were utilised by Sherlock's homeless network. However, whether the few individuals he managed to track down truly hadn't seen their erstwhile benefactor, or their loyalty to Sherlock was to a fault, the end result was the same.

Nothing. 

In the end, it was going on four by the time John made his way back to Baker Street. 

He had just placed his keys on the tray by the door and hung up his coat when the call came through from Lestrade.

John stilled. “The person, on the video, what did he look like?”

"Average height, dark hair, dark eyes. ..." Lestrade paused.

"Send it to me, now. I can tell you whether it's Moriarty," John prompted impatiently.

When the image file arrived, John opened it to the sight of the Irishman looking straight into the security camera, blowing a kiss. John seethed, but his attention was quickly caught by the bundle under Moriarty's arm.

"What's he carrying?" he asks Lestrade.

"Ah… in the next frame we realised he was carrying Sherlock's coat."

"He was _what_?" The slow simmer of concern that had been John’s constant companion all afternoon as he had traipsed about the less than salubrious parts of London, immediately elevated itself to full blown alarm. 

_The phone... the phone Sherlock might have willingly sacrificed for some strategic advantage, but… his beloved Belstaff? Never._

_Shit_.

"I gather you still haven't heard from him then?” Lestrade tentatively inquired.

John snatched his keys back off the plate. "Nope, but I'm going back to Barts now. If there's no footage of him leaving, then there's a chance he's still there." 

"My people did a thorough search …" the DI cautioned down the line.

"I'm sure they did, but I can't just hang around waiting for him to bloody call, can I?" John snapped, thundering down the stairs, forgetting, in his haste, to retrieve his coat.

"Yeah, I know. If I hear anything, you'll be the first to know."

"Ta," John responded, especially grateful for the DI's friendship in the midst of all, before he broke off the call and ran out the front door onto Baker Street.

He realised his mistake in forgetting his coat as soon as he stepped out onto the cooling pavement and was reminded again when he exited St Paul's station, but the brisk pace he set kept any chill at bay.

Molly looked up expectantly as John entered the lab, but her face fell as she saw the expression on his. "You haven't found him."

"No."

"You don’t think something’s happened to him, do you? I mean he _does_ go off sometimes …"

"I really don't know, Molly," John rubbed the back of his neck as he avoided her hopeful gaze and instead studied the files in front of her. Then he looked up at her. “Hey, is there any place you know of that Sherlock hangs out in when he's here?

"Ahh, just the roof - that's where he goes to sneak a cigarette when he’s stressed. But I already looked there."

"Thanks, I'll check there again anyway."

It was seven flights of concrete stairs to the roof. The emergency exit door gave way to reveal extraordinary sunset, casting a burnished orange hue over the parts of London it touched, and warm enough that John's forgotten coat was not an issue. There was however, nothing else up there. No Sherlock.

He turned to head back down when suddenly Sherlock appeared in front of him, He appeared to be taken off guard and John wasn't even sure that Sherlock had seen him standing there until his saw a flash of realisation in his eyes.

"John," he breathed.

"WHERE THE FUCK have you been?"

Sherlock reached unsteadily for the nearest wall, easing himself down onto the ledge, then casually took a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket. "I had some things I needed to … attend to." 

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket, presumably for a lighter, but instead dislodged a used epi-pen which tumbled noisily to John's feet. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered slightly in alarm before he was able to school his features back into an unreadable mask.

John reached down to his feet to retrieve it. "And this would be?" His voice was dangerously cold.

"Epinephrine, John, also known as adrenaline. A hormone and neurotransmitter produced by the adrenal glands."

"I know what it is! What I want to know is _why the fuck_ it was in your pocket and _why_ its been used?"

Sherlock looked down at the cigarette held unlit between two delicate fingers. "A useful stimulant." 

"You know what," John suddenly pitched the auto-injector at the ground, the plastic case splintering, sending the blue cap flying across the concrete, startling Sherlock and causing him to jerk his head up suddenly. "I really don't give a shit about why you think you need nicotine or any other stimulant … because clearly you don't give a shit about all the people who were worried about you today. Lestrade, Molly …" his voice trailed off, too hurt now at Sherlock's lack of response to add his own name to the list.

Gritting his teeth he willed himself to calm down but before he knew it, he was rounding on Sherlock again, challenging. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?" 

"About what?" Sherlock feigned ignorance.

"About this. About what's going on, or any of this. About last night and what you are planning to do next."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. When he opened them, they looked slightly pained. "I … didnt … I don't want you to get hurt."

For some reason, that was what did it, the proverbial straw that broke the control that John had been desperately clinging to, making him see red. Red; the bright, oxygenated crimson his own blood pouring from his shoulder wound, redder than he had ever seen in Sherlock's presence, ever before.

**_"_ ** _**YOU** _ ARE HURTING ME. Why can't you bloody well see that? Not letting me in, pushing me away, _**THAT'S** _ what's hurting me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he averted his gaze."I think you might need to calm down."

When John, standing over him, shook a finger an inch from Sherlock's face, the man didn't even flinch. "You, you. Don't bloody tell me to calm down. You don't get to tell me to calm down. What is it with you Holmes’ always telling people to CALM DOWN?" He drew a deep breath and then challenged. "You think you can win this thing against Moriarity don't you? You're never going to win, Sherlock. He's never going to let you win."

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock spat out, suddenly coming to life. "You think I haven't realised that all along? Moriarty has had the advantage, he's _always_ had the advantage. He's not emotionally compromised, like I am. I told you before  — sentiment: the grit in the sensitive instrument, the crack in the lens, distorting, obscuring the view. It makes me weak ... us ... " he paused before saying it, "you ... make me weak."

Standing on the roof of Barts, on the top of the world, in the golden hue of dusk, John it felt like he had taken a punch to the gut. 

"What the hell are you saying, Sherlock?"

“I’m saying …” Sherlock's voice, suddenly drained of all energy, trailed off, "… you should leave.”

“Leave … leave here, now? Or leave … us?” 

Sherlock just looked at him, those cerulean blue eyes staring straight back at John and into the depths of his soul. 

Despite the intensity of the gaze, impaled, flayed, cast aside as he had just been, John felt … 

Unseen.

He closed his eyes against the pain, walked away a few steps to try and deal with what was ripping through him.  When he turned and opened his eyes again, the sky was a little darker, and Sherlock was gone.


	54. One Misstep

Music for Chapter 54 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3

Fallout - UNSECRET, Neoni • Fallout -  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6438QUVbyA&list=PLrIkK6hpkIUiauRSMryxiApOp3TdAIeVh&index=22) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/4YNySWl0EeDoibxoS7Wubo)

My Love Will Never Die - AG, Claire Wyndham • My Love Will Never Die -  [ On YouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4eljjBtlRw) \-  [ On Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/track/15l4UEZ7f3Ybm1bTA10iAF)

[ Listen to the entire fic playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/jensen111-us/playlist/7pOyPMAL4MLxHmxLGf8Xsf?si=Fyuu52Z_RK6Hq_Jr78dXtw)

 

_Sherlock_

The stairs were narrow, worn through and beveled at the edges. His heels slipped off the ends. 

Clammy.

Him or the walls? He couldn’t be sure. 

His left hand scrabbled for purchase on the rough white bricks, his right hand clenched the twisted hessian rope, climbing, pulling himself upwards. An almost vertical climb up a tightly coiled spiral staircase.

His breaths were coming shallow and fast; too shallow, too fast. His blood pressure alarmingly low and his heart beating at twice it's normal rate. 

_Unsustainable._

There were fifty-eight steps.  How many were left? He couldn't even do basic arithmetic. And it was taking an extraordinary amount of effort to climb each one.

He had lost a lot of blood, a significant amount of blood. 

_Perhaps too significant._

His heart was beating twice it’s normal rate.

_Finally_. 

His right hand splayed on the door, pushing, leaning in, opening to ...

A familiar face. 

Then all the world went dark. 

_John_

John stayed on the roof of Barts long after the sun went down and stole all the warmth from his bones. 

Truth be told, all warmth had been stolen as soon as Sherlock had told him to leave. Go where? Sherlock hadn't said. But the message was clear. 

Away. 

From him. 

And John had been shocked. Too shocked to fight. For Sherlock. For them. And Sherlock had left.

And of course, John had forgotten his bloody coat, so even the mildness of the Autumn night was chilling when he eventually left the roof. He walked around Smithfield, through Russell Square and a hundred other places, to let the cold of the night distract him from the pain of Sherlock’s words. 

By three in the morning he found himself sitting on a bench on the south bank, on the embankment near Blackfriars Bridge, watching the lights of the city ripple on the Thames. 

Tired, cold and hungry, and godamn fucking miserable by seven, he had almost taken Lestrade's head off when he had called.

“WHAT?”

“We got a call from Southwark this morning, they found Sherlock's fingerprints at a crime scene.”

“So?” 

“Just thought you might like to know we found something ...?” 

“No need, I found him last night,” John responded flatly.

“Right, okay … um, how was he then?” 

“His usual arsehole self.”

“So where is he now? I still need to have a serious chat with him about how he left the files, and the body!”

"Bloody hell if I know. He left as quickly as he came. Doesn't matter to me all that much right now anyway!” 

And John hung up.In that second, it felt good to be unkind to someone else when he was hurting so badly. But a moment later he mentally castigated himself - none of this was Greg’s fault after all. 

Raking his fingers through his hair he drew in a deep breath. Time to pull himself together. He had just moved to push himself off the bench and make his way home when a now more tentative Lestrade called again.

“Yeah, sorry to bother you again but you don’t, uh, happen to remember what time it was that you saw Sherlock."

"I dunno Greg,” John sighed, exasperated, but determined to remain polite this time. “. Sunset? Around six? Why? What's he done this time?"

Lestrade ignored the questions. "How did he seem? Did he mention where he was going?"

"No he didn't." John emphasised. "We had a _massive_ row and he left. He wouldn't tell me anything about what he was doing."

"Is it … is it possible he decided to _take care of things himself?"_

"Things? What things? Why don't you tell me what the fuck is going on?”

"Look, I shouldn't be talking to you at all …” Lestrade lowered his voice, “but, you should try and find him before we do. And John …”

“Yes …?”

“Make sure he has a really good solicitor." Lestrade hung up.

_Shit. What had Sherlock gone and done?_

John knew he had about as much chance of finding Sherlock as he had of returning to his career of a trauma surgeon. But on the positive side, that also meant that the Met's chances were no better. 

In the meantime he needed to find out what had happened. What the Met thought they had on him. Who had Lestrade said called him? Southwark? Borough High Street Station was the closest police station, and from his current position it was only  twenty or so minutes on foot. Good thing too, because he had left his wallet in his coat hanging up by the front door of the flat.

John walked along the embankment to Cathedral street and around Borough Market, and was just about to turn the corner into High street when a commotion caught his attention. Police cars  — a lot of them — and amongst them, the navy unmarked cruiser usually requisitioned from the motor pool by Lestrade. All were parked outside St Thomas' church.

He could make out Donovan managing the line, preventing entry into the red-bricked church tower.

“Freak’s not here,” she stated, holding the crime scene tape firmly down in place in front of him as he approached.

“Not looking for him, looking for Lestrade,” John stated, stopping just short of the barrier and crossing his arms.

“He’s a bit busy right now,” she snarked. “You know, doing actual police work, not wanna-be detective stuff.”

“Just tell him I'm here and want to have a word,” John wasn't going to move from the spot and Donovan knew it.

She rolled her eyes but raised the airwave radio to her mouth anyway. “Hey boss, Freak’s boyfriend’s here.”

“Shit,” John thought he heard a mumbled curse over the crackle over the device then. “I’ll be down in a mo.”

Sally re-clipped the airwave to her belt and issued John with a look of “there.”

John graciously took a step backwards and waited.

Thirty seconds later, Lestrade appeared in the doorway of the church tower, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “John, you really shouldn't be here.”

“Yes, well, _I am here_. So, you want to tell me what's going on?”

Before Lestrade could answer, a message came through over the channel his radio was tuned to.  “Blood type confirmed. O negative.”

_Sherlock's blood type …_

Lestrade seemed to be vacillating, struggling with something but then resolved to ask, carefully.“I don't suppose you know what Moriarty's blood type is?”

“I don't, but I can find out.”

John texted Mycroft as Lestrade looked on.

The response came back.

“AB positive,” John pronounced looking up at Lestrade.

From the look on his face, it was the answer the DI had been looking for, but the information didn’t seem to relieve his concern, if anything, it just served to deepen it. 

_Something was wrong. Something was very wrong._

“You should leave, John,” Lestrade repeated as he glanced around warily.

_Not a fucking chance._

John pushed past Lestrade, darted under the crime scene tape and dashed inside the church, Lestrade yelling after him. 

John didn't stop until he had reached the top, panting hard to catch his breath and a bit dizzy from the circular stone staircase. What halted him in his tracks was not the sight of what was once a functioning early 19th century operating theatre (but now just a museum for the edification of the general public), located in what had previously been the herb garret. He knew this place well, having made the customary pilgrimage of an eager young medical student many years before. The reason for his abrupt stop was that the worn floor boards set in the theatre pit surrounding a primitive wooden operating table, were currently eclipsed by a sea of blood.

Seeping down from around a void on the table, vast amounts had tried to make its way past the false floor boards to the real floor beneath. Bright red viscous liquid insinuating itself into the cracks between the boards where it could, and forming large pools in areas where it had nowhere else to go. Even the wooden box of sawdust under the table, a replica of those used all those years ago to absorb the run off of surgery conducted without anaesthetic, was saturated with the slowly congealing fluid.

A quick mental calculation of the volume present, put it at about two litres - about 30 to 40 percent of an adult's total blood volume and the rate of coagulation and discolouration pointed to it having taken place mere hours ago. 

_And the body? Where was the body?_

Whatever the fuck had happened here, John reasoned, there was little-to-no chance the owner of the blood could have survived ...

… Oh god, he hadn't? Sherlock hadn’t gone and taken Moriarty out himself had he? Fuck! If he had, there was no way out of this one, no way Mycroft could cover this off as one of his brother’s little faux pas', a mission gone bad ...

Then to the side, John caught a glimpse of an untidy pile of clothes saturated in blood and (he squinted to make it out) ... a single black Yves St Laurent Oxford shoe poking out from underneath.

He started to feel queasy.

But that was nothing compared to how he felt a moment later, when one of the Tyvek suited forensic technicians on the floor, kneeling with a pipette in one hand and an Eldon card in the other, called out to his partner as he shook his head. 

“It's all O negative.”


End file.
